


At Your Side

by mille_libri



Series: At Your Side [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 02:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 46
Words: 165,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5440607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evelyn Hawke came to Kirkwall to protect her family. She isn't ready for the changes ahead or the men who will help her through them: the dwarf who will become her best friend and the elf she can't resist. Together, they'll solve a dark mystery and change Kirkwall forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Place Like Kirkwall

An unusual flurry of movement on the deck above her head woke Evelyn Hawke. Curled up near her, clinging to sleep—one of the few distractions from the monotony of the long voyage—lay her companions: her sister Bethany, their mother Leandra, and their friend Aveline. 

The hold was crowded with refugees from the Blight. The odors of unwashed people, poorly cooked food, and the fluids emitting from bodies both healthy and sick permeated everything on the ship. Hawke looked forward to getting to Kirkwall if only to smell something else. She worried particularly about Bethany, who had always been delicate, and her mother, whose age made her an easy target for all the ailments shared by their fellow refugees.

She lay listening to the shouting abovedecks for a few minutes before the repeated word “Land” sank in through the fog of sleep. Land! Were they finally arriving in Kirkwall? She got to her feet, careful not to wake the others. Treading carefully in the darkness so as not to step on anyone, she picked her way through the hold and climbed the ladder up to the top deck. 

Normally it was a tightly run routine on deck, but today everyone was rushing. The captain shouted orders from the quarterdeck, the men shouted at each other as they got in one another’s way. Hawke shrank back against the wall of the captain’s cabin, trying to stay unnoticed. She stared up at the cliffs on either side, at the great bronze statues that hung from them. All the statues were of slaves. Cringing, frightened slaves. Not a particularly welcoming sight.

A sailor came over to Hawke. “You should be below.” 

She looked up into the black eyes she’d come to know so well over the course of the journey, smiling. “I just want to watch, Bram.”

But Bram’s eyes didn’t change. He looked on her as though she was a stranger. “You’ll see soon enough, dog-lord. Meanwhile, stay out of the way.” And he walked off without another word.

So that’s the way it was to be. Hot words and intimacy on the passage across, but here she was just another Fereldan refugee. Well, despite Bram’s many attractions—he was a muscle-bound giant of a man about whom hung an almost palpable darkness, just the way Hawke liked it—she hadn’t intended on a long-term affair with the sailor. He knew a lot about the fine art of taking a woman hard and fast in whatever corner was handy, but when it came to matters beyond the ship he didn’t have two brains to rub together.

Hawke made herself as small as possible as the ship pulled the rest of the way into Kirkwall Harbor. By the time it bumped the dock, the others were awake, and a crowd of refugees waited with them on the deck. 

“Kirkwall,” Hawke’s mother sighed. “I can’t wait to be home.”

“You still think of it as home, Mother, after all this time?” Bethany asked.

“It’s where I was born. It will always be home to me. Just as Ferelden will always be for you,” Mother said. She put her arm around Bethany’s waist.

Hawke said nothing, but privately she disagreed. As far as she was concerned, home would be when they were all safe, with enough money to keep the Templars from taking Bethany away. Whether that home was in Ferelden or Kirkwall mattered little to her. All that lay behind was the Blighted land in which her father and her brother were buried. Without them, it could never truly be ‘home’ again.

“Look, Hawke,” Aveline said quietly in her ear. “Look how many of them there are.” She pointed to the docks, where a giant tent city sprawled wherever the eye could see. Fereldan refugees, one and all. 

Hawke caught her breath. “I hope our uncle is able to help us,” she whispered. “Otherwise, I don’t know how we’ll get in.”

“Hawke …” Aveline began.

“No, Aveline, we’ve been over this. We’ve come this far together—you’re one of the family, as far as I’m concerned. If my uncle won’t help you along with us … well, I’ll think of something.” She smiled reassuringly at her friend. “I won’t leave you behind.”

Aveline nodded, a smile crossing her face. “I suppose there are worse things than being stuck with you.” The two women shared an amused look. Hawke had found Aveline a kindred spirit through all these travels. She’d come to count on the other woman’s strength and courage in the face of Bethany’s homesickness and her mother’s alternating grief over the losses she’d experienced in the Blight and fevered daydreams of the riches and honors awaiting her daughters in the Free Marches. 

The boat docked, and they surged forward onto the soil of Kirkwall with the other refugees. Hawke felt the weight of the others on her shoulders—all three of them looking to her for leadership. What if she failed to get them in? If this whole journey turned out to be for nothing? She felt the wood of the dock solid beneath her boots, and she made herself a promise: Here they would stay. Put down roots, make a life. And Hawke would do whatever she had to do to keep them together.

Her resolve was called upon earlier than she’d expected—their Uncle Gamlen, on whose noble status (and purse) they had staked so many hopes—turned out to be a drunken gambler who looked upon his nieces’ battle prowess as an asset to be pawned. Athenril, the smuggler to whom he owed a massive debt, paid for Hawke’s family and Aveline to be brought into the city in return for a year’s servitude as hired muscle. Their mother was appalled, broken-hearted by the whole debacle, but Hawke couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to Kirkwall. A year’s worth of protection from the Templars for Bethany was boon enough, but the job was also essentially a guided tour of the inner workings of the city and a chance for Hawke to make all her initial mistakes under someone else’s umbrella. She threw herself into the work with enthusiasm.

The year went by even more quickly than Hawke had anticipated. Athenril kept them hopping, protecting the smugglers’ various interests, and slowly people began to know who Hawke was as she walked the streets. Fewer knew of Bethany, who preferred to stay out of the spotlight. 

Aveline stayed with them for a while, but Gamlen’s home was small, and his patience for his sister and her family smaller, so when a tournament was held to add to the ranks of the city guards, Aveline entered and won. She urged Hawke to join the guardsmen, as well, but Hawke couldn’t leave Bethany on her own and unprotected that way. So she stayed. Before she knew it, the year was up. Athenril shook her hand, said “If I need you, I’ll be in touch,” and sent her on her way.

This left Hawke and Bethany on their own devices, hunting for something to do that would put food on the table and offer them enough extra to keep Bethany safe. But with Kirkwall teeming with Fereldan refugees, opportunities were few and far between. Eventually, Hawke heard a rumor in Kirkwall’s seediest tavern, the Hanged Man, that a dwarf named Bartrand was putting together a Deep Roads expedition, looking for forgotten dwarven treasure. This, she thought excitedly to herself, was exactly the kind of opportunity she’d been looking for. She got up immediately, heading for the merchants’ district of Hightown, and didn’t notice the well-dressed dwarf who slung an exotic crossbow over his shoulder before he followed her from the tavern.

Bartrand proved easy to find, but harder-headed than an ogre. “You must be sun-touched!” he exclaimed. “Every blade in Kirkwall wants to join this expedition. Why would I take the chance on two unknown … humans?” He eyed them up and down unfavorably.

“We have experience,” Hawke argued. “We’ve both fought darkspawn. I was at Ostagar!”

“Humph. If I had a copper for every Fereldan who claimed to have been at Ostagar,” Bartrand grumbled. “Besides, didn’t the darkspawn win the battle of Ostagar? If I wanted to be killed by the darkspawn, I could do it without wasting money on help.”

“But—“

“No.” Bartrand turned on his heel, stalking away. Hawke stared after him helplessly.

“What now, Evelyn?” Bethany asked. “We haven’t enough coin to pay off the next person who wants to turn us in. Maybe Gamlen might know someone?”

Hawke snorted. “I don’t think Gamlen has any resources he doesn’t already owe money to.”

They walked through the busy marketplace without speaking. Hawke’s thoughts were attuned to the problem facing her, so she barely noticed when a ragged red-headed boy cannoned into Bethany until Bethany cried out in dismay. “Evelyn, my coin pouch! He took it!”

Hawke turned immediately, chasing after the boy. From out of nowhere came a twanging sound and a crossbow bolt whizzed through the air, pinning the boy to the wall by his shoulder. A dwarf in a rich-looking velvet coat walked up to the boy. “Anyone from the pickpockets’ guild caught you doing that, you’d have had your hand cut off by now,” the dwarf said, plucking the coin pouch from the boy’s clothes. “Get out of here now, and don’t let me see you in Hightown again.” He yanked the crossbow bolt out of the wall and the boy ran off, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

The dwarf turned to Hawke and Bethany, tossing the coin pouch to them. “Varric Tethras, ladies, at your service.” He bowed deeply.

“Thanks.” Hawke stowed the coin pouch away. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Let’s just say Mama Tethras didn’t raise two dumb sons. My brother may have turned you down, but I have a different view of the matter.”

“You’re part of the expedition?”

“I intend to go along and look after my part of the investment, sure. And I find the idea of having experienced fighters along with me reassuring. Your reputation precedes you, Hawke.”

“How do you know who I am?” Hawke studied him with measured eyes. He dressed like an Antivan, the rich coat gaping over his bare chest and displaying an impressive amount of chest hair and a rich gold necklace. But the crossbow bolt had hit the boy in the right spot, and Varric carried himself with a confidence that indicated he knew how to handle himself.

“I know just about everyone there is to know in this town, and there’s been a lot of discussion about you. Athenril is just about the only smuggler in Kirkwall who hasn’t been edged out by the Coterie in the last year. Why? Because of you two. Matter of fact, I followed you here from the Hanged Man—I have a proposition for you.”

“Really.” Hawke looked at him skeptically.

“Evelyn, we should hear him out,” Bethany put in. “It isn’t as though we have so many other options.”

“I’m listening.”

Varric stepped a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Look, between you and me, Bartrand’s sunk just about everything he has into this expedition. We can’t actually afford to hire you on. What we need is a partner. Invest in the expedition, and the resulting profits will make us all rich. I’d say fifty sovereigns ought to do it.”

“Fifty sovereigns? You must be daft! If I had that kind of money, I wouldn’t need this job,” Hawke hooted. “Thank you, but—“ She started to walk around the dwarf, but he caught her by the wrist.

“I thought you had better sense than this, Hawke. You’re never going to get a better opportunity. The Blight is over—the Deep Roads will be filling up with darkspawn again before you know it. There’s this one tiny window to get down there and get rich enough that no one can touch you.”

“Is that a threat?” Bethany asked coldly.

Varric chuckled. “My dear lady, your secrets are your own.” His eyes never left Hawke’s. “Think about it, Hawke. Kirkwall is teeming with work. We work together, save some coin from every job, we’ll have the money before you know it.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Why shouldn’t you? Ask around.” He grinned. “Pity Bianca can’t talk. She knows all my secrets.”

“Bianca?”

He gestured at the crossbow. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

“Indeed.” Hawke found herself smiling back at him. She liked this dwarf and his brash approach. “Tell me something, Varric.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. What do you want to know?”

“How do you know we’re going to find something more in the Deep Roads than darkspawn and dust?”

“Bartrand’s too tight with a copper to put all this money into anything short of a sure thing. And I wouldn’t be descending to the Deep Roads if I wasn’t sure it was worth it. Come on, Hawke,” he cajoled. “What else were you going to do today?”

Hawke shook her head, her blue eyes twinkling. “I can’t think of a thing. All right, Varric, I’m in.”

“Excellent. Now, let’s see what kind of trouble we can get in, shall we?”

Inevitably, they ended the night at the Hanged Man, toasting their newfound partnership. Bethany had left them hours ago, pleading a headache, but Hawke and Varric sat and drank, matching each other tankard for tankard. They laughed drunkenly, but their eyes studied each other over the rims of their mugs, waiting to see where the other’s breaking point lay.

“Hawke, you’re all right,” Varric said eventually. “You drink like a dwarf.”

“Or a soldier,” she said.

“How was that? Ostagar.”

“Who’d you name the crossbow after?”

Blue eyes met brown, the test of wills in the open, and Varric grinned. “Point taken. War stories are off limits, then.”

Hawke smiled, nodding slowly. 

“You know, I’ve seen you in here before, Hawke. Always alone.”

“Making a suggestion, dwarf? Because you should know, short men just don’t do it for me.”

Varric laughed. “Hawke, I might want things from you, but that’s not one of them. No, I think you and I are going to get along just fine without adding that into the picture. Just wanted to know if I should keep my eye out. Tie someone up and give him to you for Satinalia.”

“Interesting thought. But no, thanks, Varric. Until I know my sister is safe and my mother’s been taken care of, it seems best not to open myself up to that sort of … vulnerability.”

“I always thought you had a good head on your shoulders.” A slow smile spread across his face. “What you need, Hawke, is a reputation. An even bigger one than you already have.”

“What kind of diabolical scheme are you concocting?”

“You have any objection if I tell people you flew into Kirkwall on a dragon?”

Hawke stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “If you think anyone would believe you, be my guest.”

“Oh, no one will believe me … but that isn’t the point, is it?”

“What is the point?”

“Stick with me, Hawke. We’re going to write a new legend.”


	2. Ambush

Hawke stared down into the empty chest in front of her. “Something about this doesn’t feel quite right,” she said to Varric.

“That sounds like an understatement,” he agreed.

“You think Anso’s information was wrong?” Bethany looked over Hawke’s other shoulder. 

“I think Anso was wrong,” Varric said. “He didn’t look much like a lyrium smuggler to me.”

“What does a lyrium smuggler look like?” Merrill asked, her sweet voice filled with confusion. “Do they wear a uniform?”

Varric smiled gently up at the pretty elf. “No, there’s no uniform, Daisy. But usually they’re not quite so …”

“Twitchy,” Hawke finished, nodding. 

“Exactly,” Varric said. 

“But why?” Hawke looked around the room at the fallen bodies of the thieves. “What did he have to be so frightened of? Seems like a pretty simple operation.”

“Unless this isn’t the operation,” Varric said. “Anyone else smell an ambush?”

Hawke groaned. “Of course. And we walked right into it. What were we thinking?”

“Really, Hawke.” Varric grinned. “How am I going to make this into a good story? ‘Hawke the warrior walked unknowing into an ambush and got her head chopped off’. Lacks drama.”

“Actually,” Merrill said, “having someone’s head get cut off can be quite dramatic. I remember once when we still lived in Ferelden, our hunters went out into the forest and were set upon by shemlen … er, humans,” she corrected herself, glancing shame-facedly at Hawke and Bethany. “After they’d been fighting for a while, Jerrand slipped up behind one of the sh—humans and sliced his head off with his dar’misus. Sprayed all the other humans with blood, and they ran off. Well, it was more dramatic the way Jerrand told it,” she finished, her cheeks turning pink. 

The others all stared at her.

“What?” Merrill asked.

Varric chuckled. “Never thought you had it in you, Daisy.”

“That’s all well and good, but what are we going to do about the ambush?” Hawke said, shaking her head at both of them.

Merrill looked at the door. “You think they’re waiting for us outside?”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Bethany asked.

“Does it matter?” Hawke shrugged. “It’s the same ‘they’ as always … someone who wants to kill us for reasons we have yet to figure out.” She drew her sword. “Let’s go see if we can make them tell us what they want before we have to kill them.”

Outside the house waited a circle of mercenaries. “That’s not the elf!” exclaimed a woman in the front of the group. 

“Doesn’t matter,” growled one of the masked men behind her. “We were told to kill whoever went into that house.” 

“Apparently they’re not going to tell us why,” Varric said.

“Their loss,” Hawke said, meeting the dwarf’s adrenaline-fueled grin with one of her own as the first of the mercenaries closed in.

Whoever had hired the mercenaries had skimped a bit on both armor and training. It wasn’t long before Hawke’s great blade sliced through the neck of the last man standing. Wearily she sheathed the sword, turning to leave the Alienage and tell Anso that his goods were missing.

Another mercenary stood on the Alienage steps, glaring at her. He looked around at the carnage in outrage. “You have made a very large mistake, serah,” he growled. “Lieutenant!” he called over his shoulder.

Nothing happened. The man turned, looking confused, and a figure emerged from the darkness. “C-Captain,” he gasped. They could all hear the pat-pat of the blood dripping down the man’s arms and off his fingers as he limped toward them. Before he could reach his captain he fell, and a deep voice called from the darkness of the stairs, “Your men are dead.”

Hawke crossed her arms, waiting to see who she was going to have to fight this time. A white-haired man walked down the steps, moving lightly in some kind of strange leather armor. He stopped directly in front of Hawke, his green eyes meeting hers for a moment, before he turned to the soldier on the stairs. “You will have to return to your master empty-handed,” he said.

“You’ll pay for this, slave,” said the captain.

A blue light surrounded the white-haired man. “I am not a slave!” he snarled. He grasped the captain’s armor and thrust his glowing fist deep into the man’s chest cavity. The captain gurgled a protesting sound and crumpled to the ground, the man in leather dropping him contemptuously. 

Taken aback, Hawke stared at him. A lifetime spent with apostate mages told her this man wasn’t one … but how to explain the blue light and his ability to put his hand through a person’s body? He was covered in white markings that shone in the torchlight. Altogether, he was quite a mystery. Intrigued, Hawke took a step closer to him.

The white-haired man turned to her and said, “I apologize.”

It was just about the last thing she’d expected him to say. “For what?”

“When I asked Anso to provide a distraction from the hunters, I did not know they would prove to be so numerous.” Those green eyes met Hawke’s again, and she realized with some surprise that he was young, not far from her own mid-twenties, the white hair premature. And quite attractive, she noticed in spite of herself. “I am Fenris,” the man continued. “Those men were imperial bounty hunters sent to recover a magister’s lost property. Namely, myself.” He didn’t look like a slave, Hawke thought. He held himself proudly and met her eyes without fear. “Anso chose wisely,” Fenris said.

“We do appear to be unscathed,” Hawke agreed.

“Impressive.” Fenris thus far had not spared a single glance for the other members of Hawke’s team, studying her alone. She found his steady gaze exciting, and his voice sent a pleasant thrill through her. Sternly she reminded herself that she had no time for trysts. No matter how dark and unfathomable the man in front of her might be.

“My name is Hawke,” she said.

“Really. You are … not what I would have expected.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“I have. I put most of what I heard down to barroom legend. It appears I was too hasty in my judgment.”

“Varric, what have you been saying this time?” Hawke asked. 

The dwarf grinned and shrugged. “The usual. That you’re ten feet tall and eat ogres for breakfast.”

Hawke shook her head. He was incorrigible. She looked around at the dead men at her feet, and then back at Fenris. “That’s a lot of men to send after one slave.”

“It is.”

She pointed at the silver-white tattoos on his arms. They were what had been glowing earlier, she realized. “Does it have anything to do with those markings?”

“It does. I did not ask for these, but they have served me well. Without them, I would still be a slave.”

“Sounds like an interesting story,” Varric put in.

Fenris looked down at the dwarf. “I suppose that depends upon your point of view.”

“Oh, good, a cryptic elf,” Varric said. “That’s no fun at all.”

Until that moment, Hawke hadn’t realized that the man in front of her was an elf. It explained the strange lightness of his movement. “If you couldn’t fight these men, why not just run?” she asked.

“There comes a time when you must stop running; when you must turn and face the tiger,” Fenris said, his voice hard. “I have reason to believe my former master has accompanied the hunters to the city.” He hesitated for the first time. “I know you must have questions, but … I must confront him while I can. I will need your help.” It was clear the last admission was a difficult one for him to make.

“It sounds like you want to do more than just talk,” she observed.

Fenris’s face darkened. “Danarius wants to strip the flesh from my bones. He has sent so many hunters after me that I have lost count. And before that, he kept me on a leash like a Qunari mage; a personal pet to mock Qunari custom. So, yes, I want to do more than just talk.” He held Hawke’s gaze, oblivious to the shocked gasp Bethany gave in response to his words. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Hawke shook her head, as much to clear it as in agreement. Carefully controlled rage simmered just under the elf’s surface, and she found it distractingly exciting. Focus, Evelyn! she snapped at herself. Aloud she said, “If it means fighting more slavers, I’ll help you.”

“I will find a way to repay you,” Fenris said. “I swear it.”

She looked over her shoulder at the others, gauging their reactions. Bethany was staring at Fenris in horrified pity, Merrill looked outraged, and even Varric’s normally unchanging face was set in hard, angry lines. “Lead the way,” Hawke said. “We’re right behind you.”

Fenris led them toward Hightown, where his master was living in a borrowed mansion. Hawke and Fenris walked a bit ahead of the others. Hawke cast about for something to say, eventually settling on, “Have you been in Kirkwall long?”

He looked at her quizzically for a moment, then his expression cleared. “Ah. Conversation. You’ll have to forgive me, I’m afraid my skills are a bit rusty.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” 

“Have you been in Kirkwall long?”

“We came from Ferelden, a little more than a year ago.”

“Fleeing the Blight?”

Hawke nodded.

“How was that?”

“How was … the Blight,” Hawke repeated slowly. “Your conversational skills are rusty.”

Unexpectedly, he chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm. Hawke found herself smiling in return. “It is no more strange a question than asking an escaped slave how long he’s been in town,” he said.

“Good point,” Hawke said. “Perhaps we both need some practice.”

There was a long pause. At last Fenris said, “An intriguing possibility.” They walked in silence after that, but it was a companionable silence.

The mansion was filled with shades and demons, which seemed to enrage Fenris. He was a highly effective fighter, Hawke was pleased to see. It was a relief to be fighting at the side of someone else who used a two-handed blade—it felt a little like having her brother Carver back. Hawke found herself falling into a rhythm with Fenris—swing, duck, chop, turn, repeat—as they fought together, with Varric’s crossbow and Bethany’s magic covering them from the back. Fenris jerked, startled, the first time Bethany healed his injuries, and he looked at Hawke reproachfully before turning back to the battle. 

She supposed she should have warned him that Bethany was a mage, but how was she to know it would be a problem for him? It was a shame, too, just when she was starting to like the guy. But there was no time to worry about that now. Hawke ducked the fiery arm of a rage demon. She put all her strength into the next swing of her blade, slicing the demon neatly across the middle. 

As it turned out, Fenris’s information was wrong—his master was no longer in the mansion, if he’d ever been there. They went through the empty house a second time, once they’d cleared all the demons from it, on the off chance that they had missed something, but there was nothing. The elf’s shoulders slumped. He wouldn’t even look at Hawke. “Take whatever valuables you like. I … need some air.”

And he was gone, the front door slamming behind him. 

“Cheery bugger,” Varric said absently, sorting through a chest to see what was worth taking. 

Hawke couldn’t blame Fenris, but she wished he’d told her where to find him before he left. She was unprepared for the rush of relief she felt when they left the mansion and found him leaning against a wall outside, waiting for them. 

“It never ends,” he said, not looking at them. “I escaped a land of dark magic, only to have it follow me wherever I go. And now I find myself in the company of even more mages.”

Hawke’s sister bridled. “My name is Bethany. And you can speak to me directly, if you have something to say.”

He looked at her then. “I should have realized sooner what you really are.” Turning to Hawke, he said, “You harbor a viper in your midst. It will turn on you and strike when you least expect it.”

“My sister is stronger than you think,” Hawke snapped.

“You tell him, sis!”

“Even the strongest mages are subject to constant temptation, and when they succumb, they are a danger to everyone around them,” Fenris said. 

“Nothing’s stopping you from moving on, you know,” Bethany said.

Fenris sighed. “I do not mean to appear ungrateful—nothing could be further from the truth.” He held out a pouch. “This is the coin Anso promised you. It is all I have.”

Hawke shook her head. “Keep it.” Varric made a disappointed noise, and she frowned at the dwarf. 

“I owe you a debt, in that case,” Fenris said. “Should you find yourself in need of assistance, I would gladly render it.”

“Will you work with mages?”

Fenris looked over at Bethany, who put her hands on her hips and glared back. “I will watch them carefully if we travel together. I can promise no more.”

“Will your master continue to hunt you?”

“I am afraid so.” He held out his arms, the markings shining in the moonlight. “These are lyrium, branded into my flesh to provide the power Danarius required.” Bethany, her anger forgotten, drew in her breath sharply, wincing. Hawke didn’t wince, but she couldn’t begin to imagine how much that must have hurt. Varric came forward, studying the markings intently. “Now that I have escaped, Danarius wishes to bring me back and strip his investment from me.” As Hawke’s eyes widened in horror, Fenris nodded to confirm that she’d heard correctly.

“What a waste,” she said without thinking. Behind her, she heard Bethany’s soft snicker. Fortunately, none of the others—not as familiar with her taste in men as her sister—seemed to find anything amiss in Hawke’s comment, and she controlled the urge to smack her sister. “I am putting together an expedition,” she went on hastily. “Your fighting skills could be most useful.”

“You will find me here, then, waiting for Danarius to come and take his mansion back. Barring that event, I am at your disposal.”

“Good. We meet at the Hanged Man. Be there tomorrow, around noon.” Hawke spoke crisply to cover the relief she felt. Leaving aside her inconvenient attraction to him, Fenris was one of the best fighters she’d been in combat with. It would be good to have an extra blade on the team.

“I will see you then, Hawke.” Fenris slipped back into the mansion.

“Come on, Daisy,” Varric said to Merrill. “I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t need to do that, Varric,” Merrill said. “I hardly ever get lost anymore, and nothing ever happens to me.”

“Yes, and that nothing is costing me a fortune,” Varric muttered under his breath. He walked off at Merrill’s side. 

Hawke watched them go, smiling slightly. Varric’s gruff exterior completely failed to conceal his soft heart—it was one of the things she’d come to love about him in the short time they’d known each other. “Let’s go, Bethany,” she said. “Mother must be worried sick.”

Their mother was waiting up, her head nodding over the sewing in her lap, when Hawke and Bethany came into Gamlen’s house. She looked up as the door closed behind them, her eyes shining with relief. “My dears, I wish you wouldn’t stay out so late,” she said, rushing to help Bethany with her armor.

“Sorry, Mother,” Hawke said, tugging off her gloves. “The night’s events took an unexpected turn.”

“Yes,” Bethany giggled. “Evelyn met someone.”

“Bethany,” Hawke said warningly.

“A male someone?” Mother asked, and Hawke groaned.

“Remember Broody Bram?” Bethany asked.

“The sailor? Oh, no, not him again,” Mother said in dismay.

Bethany giggled again. “No, this one makes Bram look like a court jester. He’s an elf. And an escaped slave. You can just feel the gloom rolling off him. Just the way Evelyn likes it, right, sister?”

“Oh, Evelyn,” Mother wailed. “An elf?!”

“Don’t be silly, both of you,” Hawke snapped. “You know I could never be attracted to an elf. They’re not … tall enough for me. Besides,” she said more practically, “I haven’t time to get involved with anyone. Not until you’re safe.” Hawke smiled affectionately at her sister. She could still hear the pleasant rumble of Fenris’s voice in her ear, however, and she allowed herself to speculate for a brief moment what it would be like to—

Hawke’s imaginings were cut off before they could begin by Bethany’s disbelieving snort. “You seemed awfully glad to hear he was staying in town,” Bethany said.

“That’s because he’s a swordsman,” Hawke said firmly, hoping to convince herself as well as them. “We needed another of those—any time Aveline’s unavailable, I’m out there taking all the hits while the rest of you stand back out of the way. And if you think he’s such a catch, Bethany, you pursue him.”

“He’s not my type,” said Bethany. “Too scary. Besides, you heard what he said about mages.”

“You see?” Hawke turned to her sister, putting her arm around Bethany’s shoulders. “I could definitely never be interested in someone who didn’t like my sister.”


	3. The Worst Pies in Kirkwall

Fenris paced the rooms of the mansion restlessly. It had been a long night, and now the morning was stretching on. Soon it would be time to meet Hawke and her team at the Hanged Man. If he was going. 

It was hard to fully process the change that had occurred in his life, literally overnight. Yesterday he had been at the end of his tether, ready to sell his life as dearly as he could just so he wouldn’t have to run any longer. Then he’d found that a group of mercenaries had actually fallen for Anso’s rather thin story. He hadn’t dared to show himself during the ambush, but once he had removed the reinforcements—slowly, the dark making it easy to take them one by one—the larger main party of bounty hunters was neatly mown down. The woman leading the mercenaries was tall and capable and strong; how strong he hadn’t realized until they were in the thick of the fighting in the mansion. He’d never been able to fight next to someone the way he’d fought next to her, their blades moving in concert.

It galled Fenris that Danarius hadn’t been here after all, that his master was still out there ready to take him back. But he’d never had a position to fight from before, never had even the hope of an ally.

So now here he was, an empty mansion at his disposal, a message sent loud and clear to Danarius that Fenris was no longer to be trifled with, and a job at his fingertips, if he would take it. Darkly, Fenris pictured Danarius’s face when he was told that not only had the entire team of hunters failed to return with his pet, his ‘little wolf’, but that they had all been killed. And then he pictured himself ripping Danarius’s face off. 

He shook himself out of the daydream. Satisfying though it was, it didn’t answer the fundamental question: Would he join Hawke’s team or not?

She had certainly saved his life. She had refused to take payment for the privilege of fighting bounty hunters on his behalf and demons at his side. She hadn’t flinched at his markings. Fenris walked to the door of the office, ready to continue down the stairs and proceed to the meeting, but he stopped in the doorway.

She worked with a mage. More than one, if he understood her comments last night correctly. He supposed it was understandable that she could trust the breed, given that her sister was a mage, but the danger was there, lurking inside each of them. Could he fight alongside mages? Could he trust them at his back, allow their magic inside his skin, even for the purpose of healing? He turned, retreating into the room, holding on to the back of a chair in his indecision.

Hawke fought well. And he had heard about her, that she took on jobs other people were afraid to handle. If he worked with her he would be doing something worthwhile with his time, maybe even helping other slaves go free. If he didn’t … he looked around the room. There would be a lot of sitting alone, waiting for his chance at vengeance. Far less interesting. This time he made it to the landing before he hesitated, one foot on the top step, reconsidering.

He had spent very little time around people since his escape. Did he know how to work as part of a team? Would his presence—bitter, mistrustful, angry—be a divisive force? Cause problems for Hawke? For that matter, would Hawke’s presence cause problems for him? She was a beautiful woman. Generous, confident, her body’s enticements noticeable even under her armor. Fenris would have to have been blind not to see them, and blind he certainly was not. Was he ready to be around such temptation? To take the chance of getting close to a woman like that, one so far out of his reach? He spun on his heel, rushing back toward the safety of his den.

But he halted before he could step back over the threshold. As vividly as he’d seen Danarius’s face in his imagined revenge scene, he saw Hawke’s blue eyes when she’d said good-bye the night before. Never in all his memory had anyone looked at him the way she had—in those eyes, he hadn’t been a slave. Or an elf. Or a lyrium-marked freak. He’d been a man, like any other. And Fenris owed her for that single moment more than he could ever hope to repay. For that look, for the spirit that had given it to him, he could defy mages, people in general, and even his own heart.

His decision irrevocably made, he moved down the stairs and left the mansion, slipping out the side entrance to avoid being seen.

On the way to Lowtown, it occurred to Fenris that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything substantial. He could certainly wait and have mystery meat stew at the Hanged Man, but what if the others weren’t eating? Did he actually feel comfortable eating in front of them? No, he decided, that was a bit too … Not when he was new to the team. 

He happened to be passing a pie shop, so he stopped and went in. The smell that assailed him as he crossed the threshold was rancid and musty, and if he hadn’t been so hungry—or if the proprietress hadn’t been in the process of swooping out from behind the counter to drag him bodily toward the smell—he’d have turned and left. But Fenris had grown used to eating just about anything he could get his hands on since his escape, and occasionally before. Danarius and his evil apprentice, Hadriana, hadn’t been above withholding food, or making Fenris scrounge for it. 

“A customer!” the proprietress shrieked, her eyes practically bugging out of her head. “What can I get you, duckie?”

‘Duckie’? It occurred to Fenris that, like Hawke, this woman didn’t see him as an elf or a slave. He was just another customer, and apparently an extremely welcome one. “I’ll take a pie, please,” he said.

“Ooh, duckie, it’s your lucky day. They’re goin’ cheap! I gotta tell you, these are just about the worst pies in Kirkwall. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to make ‘em come out right. Can’t tell if it’s the recipe, or the ingredients. But I keep tryin’!” She was rummaging around behind the counter, and eventually set two cold meat pies out on the dirty board. “I’ll sell ya these both fer a copper,” she said. “And some ale to wash ‘em down, ‘cause they’re tough as a slab o’ dragonbone.”

Two pies for a copper? The price was perfect for his nearly empty coin pouch. He took a pie, biting into it. Oh, it was bad, all right. But he’d eaten worse, and been grateful to get it. He finished the first pie in record time, and the second quickly followed. 

The proprietress’s eyes were wide and round as silver pieces as she watched him wolf down the food. “Cor, but you must be ‘ungry,” she said. “You come on back in again tomorrow, duckie. Plenty more where those came from. Same price, too. I’m Mrs. Blodgett.”

“Nice to meet you,” Fenris said courteously. “I’ll … be back tomorrow, then.”

“You do that,” Mrs. Blodgett sighed happily. She put his copper away in a drawer, and as he left the shop was busily opening and closing the drawer, listening to the coin clink inside it.

The sun was high overhead when he went inside the Hanged Man. He loitered in the entrance for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside before he looked for Hawke.

She stood next to a table in the back. Fenris caught her eye, and she smiled and beckoned to him. He felt warmed all through by that smile. He wasn’t sure he remembered anyone ever being simply glad to see him. Danarius had smiled at him occasionally, but they weren’t happy smiles, and they never boded well for Fenris. He shook the dark thoughts off as he approached the table.

“Fenris,” she said in her crisp, clear voice. “Glad you could make it. I wasn’t sure you would.” It was odd how she could speak to him as though they were alone in front of a table full of people. 

Without thinking, he answered the same way. “Neither was I.”

They stared at each other for a moment before Hawke looked down at the dwarf. “You remember Varric, of course.”

“Elf,” the dwarf said, nodding, not unpleasantly.

“And my sister, Bethany.” 

The mage’s eyes were cold, no welcome there.

“This is Aveline,” Hawke went on, pointing to a red-headed woman in guardsman’s armor. “And Anders and Isabela and Merrill.” A blond man who looked as though he carried some heavy demons on his shoulders; a scantily dressed pirate who looked Fenris over with hot eyes; and the shy-looking elf he’d met the night before. “Everyone, Fenris.”

He nodded all around, finding a seat next to Hawke that was somewhat in a dark corner. It made him feel better to be able to see the room more clearly than the room could see him.

“All right,” Hawke said. “Now we can begin. What do we have today?”

“Guardsman Donnic’s patrol is tonight,” Aveline said. “After the ambush we prevented last week? He’ll be carrying the same satchel through Lowtown, alone. Donnic is a … good man. I’d hate to see anything happen to him.”

“Don’t worry, Aveline. We’ll be there. Anything else?”

“Shouldn’t we put your new toy through his paces?” Isabela purred, her dark eyes on Fenris. He accepted the overture for what it was—women of Isabela’s stamp found the aura of strangeness that hung around him irresistible. He found them minor annoyances, mostly. 

“Focus, Isabela!” Hawke said, more sharply than he’d heard her speak before. Isabela merely smirked at him and sat back.

“There’s that man Ghyslain who was looking for his wife,” Varric put in. “Do we think he’s on the level?”

“Why wouldn’t he be? He was so concerned about his wife’s family not knowing where she was,” Merrill exclaimed.

The dwarf looked at the elf affectionately. “He was worried his wife’s family thought he’d killed her.”

“Oh. I must have missed that.” Merrill looked embarrassed.

“We should probably at least talk to the prostitute she was seeing,” Hawke decided. “Even if Ghyslain really did kill his wife, we ought to find out what happened.”

“Bartrand wants to know how long until we have his money, too,” Varric said. He and Hawke shared an amused look. “I told him when we had it, he’d be the first to know.”

“Technically, wouldn’t that mean he’d be the third?” Merrill asked. “I mean, if the two of you knew first …”

Varric laughed. “You got me there, Daisy.”

Fenris, having spent the last three years on the run, watching people, found this particular grouping highly fascinating. From where he sat, he couldn’t see Hawke very well, and Aveline mostly watched Hawke, as did Merrill. Bethany watched the blond man, Anders, who occasionally caught Bethany’s glance, but mostly looked down at his cup. Isabela’s eyes roamed from person to person. She missed nothing, and found all of them amusing. Varric split his attention between Hawke and Merrill.

His eyes moved over the group as Hawke took a roll-call of availability. Aveline seemed anxious to return to her duties as guardswoman, and was the first to hurry off.  
Isabela stood up slowly, bending over far more than should have been necessary. She glanced around the table to see whose eyes might have been drawn to her abundant cleavage. “Unless you have anything particularly … attractive for me to do, count me out,” she said, her gaze raking over Hawke’s body. 

“Not today, Isabela. But thanks for the offer,” Hawke said dryly.

“Your loss, love,” Isabela said. She looked past Hawke to Fenris, and then sauntered away toward the bar, her movements deliberately sensual. 

Fenris wondered what Isabela would do some day when her body no longer brought her everything she wanted. He doubted she planned that far ahead—perhaps she wasn’t expecting to live that long.

Anders stood up, as well. “I’ll be in my clinic,” he said in his soft voice. “The line was out the door this morning.”

Bethany looked up eagerly. “Need some help?”

“Uh … sure,” Anders said, but he looked discomfited by the girl’s obvious interest, as though he would just as soon avoid her. What was he afraid of? Hawke? Fenris narrowed his eyes, watching the blond man’s slumped shoulders and cringing posture. If he had to guess, it seemed Anders was afraid of himself. Fenris made a note to keep a particularly careful watch on the other man, especially since Bethany seemed to have no idea that her overtures were anything other than welcome.

Looking up, he met Hawke’s eyes. She looked from him to Anders and Bethany and sighed. Clearly Hawke wasn’t happy about that situation, either. “All right,” she said. “Looks like it’s us, then.”

Varric sat back, folding his arms with a pleased look, and Merrill smiled up at Hawke. “Ready when you are, Hawke,” she said.

“Thanks, Merrill.” She turned her blue eyes to Fenris. “You with me?” 

“I am at your service,” Fenris said courteously.

“You have no idea what a relief it is to have another blade on hand,” she said with a friendly smile. “These cream cakes just stand back and let me take all the hits.” She turned the smile on Merrill and Varric, who chuckled. It was clearly a standard joke.

“In that case, I’m glad I can help,” Fenris said, finding with some surprise that he was looking forward to fighting at her side again.

They went out of the Hanged Man into the sunlight, making their way through the streets toward Hightown.

“Where are we going?” Merrill asked.

“The Blooming Rose,” Hawke said.

“Do they sell flowers?”

“No, Daisy,” Varric said. “Well … not exactly. They sell, um, the flower of womanhood.”

“Now you sound like one of Isabela’s stories,” Hawke said dryly.

“The brothel?” Fenris asked.

“You’ve heard of it?” Hawke glanced at him curiously.

“I listen a lot. The names of taverns and brothels are usually among the first things I hear.” 

“Makes sense,” Varric began, but whatever else he was going to say was cut off by the arrow that whistled above his head and embedded itself in the wall. 

“Again?!” Hawke said in annoyance as she pulled her sword. Fenris did the same, just in time to handle the first wave of thugs that came spilling out of an alley toward them. 

Merrill called out something in the Dalish tongue and the largest thug was wrapped in earth, held immobile. As his sword sliced into the man’s flesh, Fenris had to admit that there were occasions when magic could be useful in a fight. 

Hawke was moving next to him, leaping into the air and bringing her blade down on a thug’s head, and behind him he heard the ratchet and twang of Varric’s crossbow. 

It took the four of them only a few minutes to take out the group of thugs. Varric and Merrill bent to rifle through the men’s pockets and Hawke flagged down a nearby guardswoman, alerting her to the mess. The guardswoman promised to send along a clean-up crew. Flushed and breathless, with wisps of chestnut hair straggling from her bun to frame her face, Hawke rejoined them.

“Anything good?” she asked Varric.

“A moth-eaten scarf and a rusty teaspoon.”

“Why do you collect that junk?”

“Souvenirs.” Varric grinned. “Besides, you’d be surprised what some vendors will pay for this stuff. With the right story attached, of course.”

“Who were those men?” Fenris asked.

Hawke looked at him in surprise. “Oh, right, it’s your first day. Truthfully, we never know. But it happens all the time. Hightown, Lowtown, Darktown …”

“The Wounded Coast,” Merrill put in.

“Exactly,” Hawke said. “You get used to it in time.”

She walked off with Varric and Merrill, not sparing another glance at the men lying in the street. Fenris watched her for a moment, then followed, shaking his head. Life with her around was not going to be dull.


	4. In the Market

A few weeks later, they were ambling through the streets in the blue light of early evening. While the grouping changed depending on who was available and what the job was, more often than not it was the four of them—Hawke and Varric and Fenris and Merrill. Hawke told herself it was because she and Varric had the most to gain and Fenris and Merrill the least to do. But she had to admit, too, that Varric worried himself sick over Merrill when she wasn’t with him, and that Hawke herself had grown so used to the weight of Fenris’s gaze on her that she felt naked without it.

“Hanged Man tonight?” Hawke asked.

“Every night.” Varric grinned.

“You live there,” Merrill pointed out. “Of course you’re there every night.” She yawned. “I don’t see how you can both stay up so late drinking and still be able to get up and fight the next day.”

Hawke shrugged. “It’s better than going back to Gamlen’s.”

“You’ve lived there for more than a year, but you still don’t refer to it as home,” Merrill observed.

“It isn’t,” Hawke said harshly. “It’s Gamlen’s home, and he never lets us forget it.”

“At least you’re together,” Merrill said. “That’s more important than where you live.” Her eyes were sad and far away.

“That’s true,” Hawke said gently, wishing yet again that she understood why the elf couldn’t—or wouldn’t—go back to her people. “But I wouldn’t consider Gamlen’s a fit home for Mother and Bethany, anyway,” she added after a moment. “I still can’t forgive Gamlen for taking Mother’s inheritance and losing the Amell estate.”

“Estate?” Fenris said sharply. “You come from Kirkwall nobility?” Hawke turned her head to look at him, surprised at his obvious displeasure. Then it occurred to her that perhaps he equated nobles with slave-owners … a narrow-minded view, but understandable given his history. Either way, he was ascribing to her a claim she didn’t feel.

“No,” she said, “my mother comes from Kirkwall nobility. I am a Fereldan soldier. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to give her back what she’s lost.” Fenris nodded, looking away, but some of the tension eased from his face. Hawke turned to Varric. “You’re slipping, Varric. I thought everyone knew that story by now.”

“Hawke, you wound me. Give me credit for a little creativity! That ‘descended from nobility’ story was tired before your boat docked. My stories are fresh and have the element of surprise.”

“You mean they’re not true,” Merrill said.

“That, too.” Varric chuckled. “Anyway, it isn’t my fault the elf here is behind on his Hawke folklore.”

“Perhaps I should catch up, then,” Fenris said dryly.

“Don’t look at me,” Varric said. “I never tell old stories.” He cast a sideways look at Hawke. “I’m sure Hawke would be happy to tell you all about herself.”

Hawke glared at him. She couldn’t decide whose teasing was more annoying, Varric’s or Bethany’s. 

They were walking through Lowtown’s evening green market—the leftovers from the daytime Hightown market, sold at a discount to Lowtown residents. Wilted lettuce, wormy apples, rubbery carrots. Still a lavish and lush selection compared to the leftovers that would be tossed in a bin for the denizens of Darktown once night fell. 

Suddenly a shrill voice rang out, calling across the square. “Duckie! Yoohoo, duckie!”

The voice was coming closer, still calling out. Hawke looked up and saw a heavyset woman with a fussy curled hairdo that was meant for someone decades younger coming toward them, and incredibly enough, she was looking at Fenris.

“’Duckie’?” Varric said, curiosity and glee mixing in his voice.

“Dwarf, if the thought so much as crosses your mind …” Fenris said darkly.

Varric laughed outright. “Oh, it’s far too late for that … duckie. How do you know Lovenia Blodgett?”

To Fenris’s obvious relief, Mistress Blodgett was stopped in her tracks by a merchant who held a basket of heavily sprouted potatoes temptingly under her nose. She stopped, dithering over the selection.

“Don’t tell me,” Varric said. “You don’t actually eat there, do you?” At Hawke’s mystified look, Varric grinned. “Mistress Blodgett’s Meat Pies are famous all over town. The worst pies in Kirkwall. And really, it’s not a joke.”

“They’re cheap,” Fenris said shortly.

“They’d have to be.” Varric looked Fenris over with a new respect. “If you can eat those and still be standing, you’ve got more … guts than I gave you credit for.”

Fenris growled. Hawke smothered a smile, and Merrill giggled.

Across the marketplace Hawke spied two familiar figures—Anders and Bethany, no doubt shopping for ingredients for tomorrow’s soup. Hawke couldn’t fault Anders’s energy. He tried his best to heal all the ailments of Ferelden’s forgotten refugees, including hunger. But weariness marked every line of his figure, the burden of his vengeance clearly wearing at him. Hawke would have been much happier if her sister had found someone else’s cause to espouse. If Anders caused her sister to be captured, or got her hurt, Hawke would kill him.

As she walked toward the two of them, an old woman, bent and twisted, bumped into Anders. He reached down, gently helping her to regain her balance, his face soft with pity.

“Alms?” she asked in a cracked voice.

Anders shook his head. Coin was one thing he didn’t have to give. “I’m sorry, mistress,” he said.

The old woman craned her neck, looking up into Anders’s brown eyes. “Hey, don’t I know you, messere?” she asked eagerly.

“No,” Anders said. “I’m afraid not.”

“I see you in there,” she whispered, reaching up on tiptoe to look closer into his eyes. “Vengeance!”

“What did you say?” Anders asked sharply. He grabbed the old woman’s wrist. “What are you talking about?”

The old woman whimpered, twisting her wrist in Anders’s grasp. Hawke moved more quickly toward the mage, passing Mistress Blodgett, who was staring at the old woman, her eyes glittering strangely.

“Anders, let go,” Bethany said urgently, tugging at Anders’s arm.

The mage seemed frozen, looking into the old woman’s eyes. A strange light filled his face, and his voice, when he spoke, wasn’t his. “I am not here for your purpose, woman.”

The old woman sagged in disappointment, just as a strong tattooed hand clamped down on Anders’s arm. “Let her go, mage, or it will go badly for you.”

Anders released the old woman, who scuttled quickly away, and he turned to Fenris. “Unhand me,” he said, still in that unfamiliar voice.

“I should kill you, abomination.” Fenris’s voice was low and dangerous, and Hawke could see his lyrium markings beginning to glow.

“Let go of him!” Bethany said.

Hawke pushed the two men apart, but they continued to stare defiantly at each other. “The two of you are making a spectacle of yourselves and putting yourselves—and others—in danger,” she hissed, with a significant glance at Bethany. 

“You can’t work with him,” Fenris growled. “He’s a danger, unstable and untrustworthy.”

“He is not!” Bethany cried, but she quieted when Hawke gave her a stern look.

“I’m sorry,” Anders said in his own voice. “I should have … I don’t know what happened.”

“Figure it out,” Hawke snapped. “No one can afford for you to lose control.”

He nodded.

“You can’t be taking his part!” Fenris said.

Sternly, Hawke said, “Anders makes life bearable for hundreds of refugees every day. Without him, many of them would die. As long as his usefulness outstrips the danger his … situation poses, we will aid him with whatever means we have. Am I understood?”

Fenris’s eyes met Hawke’s. He looked sad and angry and betrayed all at once. “This thing will turn on you. You have to know that,” he said in a low, furious voice. “Yet you continue to defend him. You allow your sister to trail around after him, exposing herself to the worst magic has to offer. Dolscipe caecitas!” His shoulders slumped. “I need to go.” He turned and left the marketplace.

After that night, Fenris didn’t appear at meetings for almost a week. Hawke let him be—if wrestling with his demons required space, she’d give him space. But when no one had seen him in five days, Hawke decided that space was less important than making sure something hadn’t happened to him. After dark she went to the big empty mansion, knocking on the front door. There was no answer. And what had she expected, after all? That he’d come to the door like he owned the place?

Hawke stood in front of the door for several seconds, undecided, before trying the knob. Unlocked. She was relieved—she’d have gone to the Hanged Man for Varric or Isabela and their lock-picking kits if she’d needed to, but listening to their inevitable comments would have been a high price to pay for the favor. Pushing the door open, Hawke walked in, nearly tripping on a loose floor tile.

“Go away.” The voice came from the study at the top of the stairs.

“Not going to happen, Fenris.”

There was a silence. Then the voice again, slightly less hostile this time. “I knew it would be you.”

Hawke started up the stairs. “I’m coming up.”

“Don’t.”

“I gave you five days,” she said. “That’s more than enough.”

“When did you become my keeper?”

She stopped in the doorway, looking at him. He was sitting in a hideously brocaded chair, surrounded by wine bottles. “You owe me, remember? I wanted to make sure you hadn’t skipped town.” When he didn’t look up, she said, more seriously, “Or been taken from it.”

Now he did look at her, the green eyes remarkably clear. “I suppose I should thank you for that, then.”

“No need.” She walked carefully across the floor, picking her way around fallen bottles and glass shards. “I see you found the wine cellar.”

As Hawke sank into the other chair, Fenris stood up. He lifted one of the bottles, looking at it. “Agreggio Pavali. There are six bottles in the cellar.” More quietly, almost to himself, he said, “Danarius used to have me pour it for his guests. My … appearance intimidated them, he said.” He looked at Hawke, then. “Which he enjoyed.”

“That wouldn’t have been my reaction,” she said without thinking, and groaned inwardly. She wasn’t even attracted to elves, and she certainly couldn’t afford to get involved with this one—that would make things entirely too complicated. But somehow being near Fenris made it hard to remember why. 

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “You say what’s on your mind, I’ll give you that.” He lifted the bottle, taking a long drink. Then he hurled the bottle against the far wall with all his might. Both of them watched as it shattered, the wine running down the wall and staining the paper.

“It’s good I can still take pleasure in the small things,” Fenris said. He glanced at Hawke with dark amusement.

She smiled in return, leaning back in the chair. “You could have offered me a glass first, you know.”

Fenris shrugged. “There’s more, if you’re really interested.”

“Perish the thought. How else would you decorate your walls?”

He looked startled, then he laughed. It was the first time she’d heard him express genuine mirth, and she couldn’t help but laugh with him. But the moment passed quickly, the humor fading from his face. He sat down on a bench near her chair. “Tell me, have you never wanted to return to Ferelden, to your home?”

“I grew up in Ferelden, but it isn’t my home,” Hawke said. She remembered running through the fields outside Lothering as a child, chasing Carver. “Not any longer.”

“The Blight is over. You could rebuild what you lost. Do you truly not want to?” Fenris’s eyes studied her face intently.

“It’s not that easy,” Hawke said. “My brother and my father are gone. And my mother is happy here. Kirkwall is where her heritage is, and that’s important to her.”

Fenris nodded. “I understand wanting to put down roots. Still … to have the option, a ‘home’ to return to … It must be gratifying.” 

She looked at his bowed head. “You’ve been on the run a long time, then?”

“Three years now. Danarius has a way of finding me, every time I stop somewhere.” He held his arms out in front of him, looking at the tattoos. “Perhaps it is the markings. Whatever it is, it never takes him long to follow.” At that he looked up. “This is the first time I’ve given him pause. I suppose … there are advantages in numbers.”

“Have you never sought help before?”

“Hirelings. When I could steal the coin. Never anyone of substance … until you.” His jaw clenched, and he looked away. “Danarius will not give up. These markings are too valuable to lose.”

“And if he doesn’t come?” Hawke leaned forward.

“Then I go to him. I will not live with a wolf at my back.” 

Never having a moment’s peace, always waiting to be found? It sounded like the way she and Bethany lived. It would have been nice to have a single enemy, one who could be defeated, rather than an entire civilization’s deeply ingrained beliefs to fight. She didn’t share that thought with Fenris, however. “Sounds like the right idea to me,” she said instead.

Fenris looked back at her in surprise. Hope sparked in his eyes for a moment, then ebbed away. “If it comes to that. I doubt it will.”

“How long will you wait?”

“As long as it takes. I imagine he has returned to Minrathous, and I dare not go near the city while he is alive. No, it is better to wait for him to leave his fortress, fight from a fortified position.” He swallowed, and Hawke could see the difficulty he had with the next words. “I do not expect your help when he comes for me, but I would not turn it aside.”

“You’ll have it,” she said immediately. “He will not take you back if I have anything to say about it.”

It was clear on his face that he was as much disturbed by the promise as he was gratified by it. Hawke tried not to let it bother her. After all, he was used to being on his own, relying entirely on himself. She wouldn’t have wanted to have to depend on someone else for her freedom, either.

Hawke took a deep breath before tackling the subject she’d come here to address. “About what happened in the market …”

“You were right,” Fenris said unexpectedly. “The good he does is worth his life. Until he becomes a hazard.”

“I’m sure you’ll let me know when you think that time has come,” Hawke said.

“Depend upon it.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Mages appear to be your blind spot.”

“You can’t blame all mages for the mistakes made by some.”

“A point of view that might seem charmingly innocent if it were not so dangerous. You should speak to Bethany about him.”

“Leave my sister out of this, Fenris.” Privately, Hawke agreed with him, but she doubted Bethany would listen. “You said you could work with mages.”

“Mages, yes. Abominations and blood mages were not precisely what I meant.” He looked at her reproachfully.

“I know.” Hawke sighed. “I’m not happy about it, either, but I would rather have them where I can keep an eye on them.”

“If we must protect these apostates, I suppose I also would rather have them where I can keep an eye on them.” His eyes softened. “I have not adequately thanked you for your help with the bounty hunters. Had I known Anso would find me a woman so capable, I might have asked him to look sooner.” His voice was warm and husky. If he’d been anyone else, Hawke might have thought he was flirting with her, and Maker help her, she wanted him to.

“Maybe I should be thanking Anso,” she said breathlessly.

He gave a half-smile that did nothing to calm the hum of excitement she felt. “Maybe you should.” They stared at each other, the moment stretching between them. Then Fenris’s eyes shadowed, and Hawke cursed herself for a fool. But whether she was a fool for pushing too hard, or for pushing at all, she wasn’t sure.

Fenris stood up, then, moving toward the door in unmistakable dismissal. “I’m certain there are many things we have to do tomorrow.”

“Aren’t there always?” Hawke got up, crossing the room. “Good-night, Fenris.”

“Good-night, Hawke.”


	5. Green Finch and Linnet Bird

Varric stretched his legs out toward the fire with a sigh. Life was good. Following Hawke gave him something interesting to do every day; he was earning money toward the expedition, which kept Bartrand out of his hair; and the promise of riches hung before him, just waiting for him to step into the darkness and pluck them from the depths. So what if he couldn’t seem to keep himself from concocting elaborate fantasies about a certain sweet elf? Fantasies never hurt anyone, and Varric knew better than to imagine they would ever come true. 

The unusual quiet was an interesting change of pace, he thought. Hawke had taken Bethany and Aveline with her to go be witnesses at some duel Isabela had set up. Varric wasn’t sure he’d have chosen that particular grouping, but he’d have liked to be a fly accompanying the ladies to hear what they talked about. Isabela and Aveline were an amusingly toxic combination. Anders was no doubt in his clinic, and Varric hadn’t seen either Fenris or Merrill tonight. It was a good bet they weren’t anywhere together, though. 

He signaled Norah for a refill. As usual, she ignored him. Sighing, Varric got to his feet, glaring menacingly at the other patrons to make sure no one took his cushy seat near the fire. He went to the bar, waiting for Corff to finish filling a set of tankards for the group of off-duty guardsmen singing bawdy songs in the back.

As he stood there, the door opened. Varric glanced over automatically, hoping it would be Hawke. A quiet evening couldn’t compare to one spent drinking with his best friend, after all. He lost interest when he saw it was just the Hanged Man’s chatty regular, Rigby. Varric handed his tankard across the bar to Corff, listening to Rigby’s monologue—addressed to the room in general—only out of habit.

“—and they’ve got some knife-ear cornered. Looked like the one always in here with that Hawke,” Rigby was saying. “Serves her right, you ask me, wandering where she shouldn’t be—“

Wandering where she shouldn’t be? Varric’s fingers loosened on the handle of the tankard, dropping it and sloshing ale over the bar. Oblivious to Corff’s annoyed shout, Varric hurried across the tavern to Rigby. He grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt, pulling his head down to Varric’s level. “Where is she?” Varric asked.

“She who?” Rigby looked confused.

“The elf! Where is she?” Varric gripped Rigby’s shirt more tightly.

“Alley. ‘Round the corner. To the left,” Rigby gasped as the shirt tightened around his throat. Varric let him go and Rigby staggered, nearly falling, as Varric turned and rushed out of the tavern. 

He cursed his short legs as he ran, wishing for once to be a tall human, able to eat up the space with long strides. Varric heard light footsteps behind him, and turned his head to see Fenris. He hadn’t even known the elf was in the Hanged Man, much less that he could be counted on for a rescue mission. “Didn’t know you cared, elf,” he said.

“I do not. But Hawke does.”

At any other time, Varric would have followed that conversational path—any opportunity to pry details out of the close-mouthed elf was not to be passed up. But right now he was just glad to have Fenris at his back. 

They arrived at the alley, and Varric felt a chill spread through him as he heard Merrill’s voice. “Please, just give me my staff back.”

There were four of them, ranged across the alley entrance, cutting off any chance she had to escape. Two others lay on the ground amidst piles of dirt and thorny vines, overpowered by Merrill’s magic before her staff had been taken from her. As Varric and Fenris came up behind them, one of the men was saying, “Now, little mage, you play nice, or I’ll have my friend here smite you again. You don’t want that, do you?”

_Filthy Templars!_ Varric thought. He felt Bianca burning against his back, and he unslung her, putting a crossbow bolt through the spine of the speaker, while Fenris rushed the Templar, his sword cleaving the man’s head in two. As Merrill’s eyes brightened in relief at the sight of the two of them, Fenris’s followthrough took the head off the third man.

“Wait, elf,” Varric said as Fenris moved toward the last man. “Don’t kill this one.” 

Fenris stopped, his sword poised to strike. “Why not?”

“Because he’s going to take a message,” Varric said. He stepped closer to the last man, whose eyes were wide with terror. “Aren’t you?”

The man nodded wildly.

“You tell everyone you know that anyone who messes with one of Hawke’s people won’t live to see another sunrise,” Varric said. He hardly recognized his own voice, it was so raw with fear and anger. “Got that?” It was a credit to Hawke’s prowess and his own storytelling skills that her name was a legitimate threat. The man in front of him blanched when he heard it, trembling like a leaf. 

“Got it,” the man quavered. Fenris put the sword down, and the thug ran off. 

Varric turned to Merrill. “Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you?” His voice wobbled slightly, and he hoped she didn’t notice.

“No, no hurt. I—think I’d like to go back home now.” Her green eyes looked imploringly at him. “Will you … walk with me?”

“Of course,” Varric said.

“And Varric? Thank you,” Merrill said shakily. “You, too, Fenri— Where did he go?”

_Ancestors bless his broody elven heart_ , Varric thought. “Must not like to be thanked. Shall we?” He offered an arm to Merrill, who giggled unsteadily as she took it, reaction setting in. With all the palms he greased in an effort to keep Merrill safe, nothing like this should have happened to her. Varric made a mental note to deal with whoever had dropped the ball this time, in a way that would send a loud, clear message. Maybe he’d ask Isabela to take care of it—she had a memorable way about her when it came to these things, and was nearly as protective of Merrill as he was.

Across town, the four women waited for Isabela’s contact to show. He was late, and Isabela was more visibly upset than any of them had ever seen her, pacing back and forth and chewing on her lower lip. 

Coming from one of the houses around them, a woman’s voice floated through the night, singing a light air from a popular operetta. Bethany turned her face up toward the sound. “How lovely,” she sighed. “And how sad.” A pensive look crossed her face. Aveline pulled Hawke aside before she could ask what was on Bethany’s mind.

“Hawke,” Aveline said quietly. “I enjoy helping you out with these tasks of yours, you know that, but I’m not sure this is the wisest place for me to be right now. I’m training to take Captain Jeven’s place—whatever shady thing Isabela’s involved in, I shouldn’t be.”

“We don’t know that it’s shady, Aveline,” Hawke returned. “I wouldn’t have brought you along if I thought it would compromise you. Give me some credit!”

“Please.” Aveline’s tone dripped disbelief. “Of course it’s shady. Isabela wouldn’t know how to do anything else. But I trust you,” she added, with a brisk nod at Hawke.

“What would I do without you, Aveline?”

“Get in a lot more trouble, I’m certain.” Aveline grinned, her green eyes twinkling. Then her face changed and she tugged on Hawke’s arm. “Look!” Hawke turned to follow Aveline’s gaze. Two men were strolling along the street, and Hawke recognized former Guard Captain Jeven, whose corrupt tenure in office had been ended by her own evidence and Aveline’s. The other was a noble named Terrien. The two men’s heads were together. 

Hawke and Aveline moved quietly closer to the men, listening hard. The singing continued, coming from the house Jeven and Terrien were stopped in front of.

“ … still there, nothing to worry about,” Jeven was saying.

“Good. And what of the woman?”

“Crazy as a loon. Nearly got herself killed in the market the other day.”

“Excellent. Let’s hope she succeeds one of these days. Much more convenient.” Terrien looked at Jeven. “It is, however, inconvenient that you’ve lost your place. I suppose there’s no way to discredit this woman Aveline?”

Aveline stiffened, and Hawke clamped a hand on her friend’s arm. An unsubstantiated attack on a noble seemed like a bad idea. Aveline nodded in agreement, relaxing a bit.

“No,” Jeven spat. “She seems unimpeachable.”

“Never mind that, then. We’ll find you some things to do, Jeven, not to worry.”

“Thank you, serah.” Jeven bowed.

Terrien nodded in return and went into his house. The singing stopped abruptly as the door closed behind the noble, leaving the street in silence. Left alone, Jeven walked off into the darkness. 

“What do you think that was all about?” Hawke whispered.

“I don’t know. Jeven left all sorts of papers lying about when he was sacked,” Aveline said. “I’ve only managed to go through some of them. The answer may be in there.”

“Pssst!” Isabela’s whisper cut through the air. “It’s time. Get your sweet little fannies moving!”

Aveline rolled her eyes and Hawke grinned. A little Isabela was good for Aveline, who constantly ran the risk of losing her sense of humor under the weight of duty. 

Hours later, Hawke and Bethany walked wearily back to Lowtown. Isabela’s duel had, of course, ended in an ambush, and the four women had had to stand shoulder to shoulder taking on a whole crew of brigands. To top it all off, Hawke was no closer to understanding what Isabela was doing in Kirkwall—the mystery surrounding the pirate seemed to grow ever deeper. 

“Evelyn, I’m frightened.” Bethany’s comment seemed to come out of nowhere. She put her hand on Hawke’s arm to keep her sister from entering their uncle’s house. 

“Is that what you were thinking about earlier? When you were listening to the song?”

“She seemed so … hopeless, whoever was singing,” Bethany said softly. “She sang the way I feel.”

“It’s not hopeless!” Hawke said. “You know I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“It’s the Templars,” Bethany said. “I feel them looking over my shoulder, ready to take me to the Gallows and make me tranquil. There’s no escape from them, Evelyn. Not in Kirkwall.”

Damn Anders, Hawke thought, and all his gloom-and-doom stories. “That is not going to happen,” she said firmly to her sister, gripping Bethany’s arms tightly. “And if Anders can’t learn to keep his mouth shut, I’ll teach him how.”

“It’s not his fault,” Bethany said. “He understands what mages are facing, that’s all.” 

“Bethany, what exactly is going on between you two?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Bethany sighed.

“Right. Tell me another one.”

“No, really. He says he can’t afford to lose control. We kissed once and he … He wouldn’t speak to me for two days. Like he was afraid of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Hawke said.

“What about you and Fenris? Don’t bristle at me, sis, I know you too well.”

“There is no me and Fenris,” Hawke said. “Or me and anyone else, for that matter. Not until you’re safe.”

“I wasn’t safe in Lothering, and that never stopped you then. Remember Dugan? And Grimsley? Now he was aptly named.” Bethany smiled teasingly at her sister, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“That was Lothering. Kirkwall is … different. I need to project a certain image here; I can’t be vulnerable, or I leave myself—and therefore, you—open. When we’re sure we can keep the Chantry from taking you, then I can think about what I might want.”

“When will that be?” Bethany said skeptically. “You might be waiting a long time.”

Hawke gave her sister an affectionate little shake. “It’s worth it. I lost Carver; I won’t lose you, too.”

“Evelyn, you’re only one woman,” Bethany protested. “You can’t stand up against the whole Chantry!”

“Watch me.” Hawke took her sister in her arms. “I have enough money for Bartrand’s expedition, and once that’s over, we’re safe for good. I promise.” Bethany nodded against Hawke’s shoulder. But as she held her sister, Hawke wished for the first time in years that Bethany could be less helpless, even for a little while, and protect herself. Or, barring that, to have someone around who was strong enough to reassure _her_.


	6. In the Depths

“Your people actually choose to live down here?” Hawke asked Varric as they walked through the dripping, echoing caverns of the Deep Roads.

“Crazy, isn’t it?” He looked around with as much disgust as she felt. “I’ll be glad to get out of here and get some decent ale again.”

Hawke looked over her shoulder at Anders. “Come on, poky! Aren’t you supposed to be the experienced one?”

The mage shuddered. “I swore I’d never enter the Deep Roads again. I hate the bloody Deep Roads.”

Fenris crossed his arms, glaring at Anders. “I told you we should have left him behind.”

“Wait, elf, I thought you said we should bring him along to keep an eye on him. Get your story straight,” Varric protested. “Hawke, far be it from me to question your judgment, but isn’t this expedition likely to be miserable enough without dragging along a mage who hates the Deep Roads and an elf who hates mages?”

“You make a good point,” Hawke admitted. “But what choice did I have? We needed Anders’s experience; Aveline couldn’t come, Isabela refused, and Merrill would have been very unhappy down here.” Varric didn’t argue that assertion. “I thought about bringing Bethany, but you saw the fit my mother had when I suggested it. And fair enough. Mother has too few eggs to trust them both in this extremely dangerous basket. So here we are.” 

“Let’s just hope we can get in, loot the place, and be back out before they have time to kill each other,” Varric muttered.

Hawke glanced back at the others, who were engaged in one of their endless arguments about the evils of magic versus the evils of the Templars. “We’ll need to move faster.”

“You know,” Varric said, “you’d think they’d be best friends. Aren’t they pretty much the same person? Both of them always brooding about taking revenge on the people who oppressed them.”

“I’ll pay you five gold to make that point to them … if you survive,” Hawke said, chuckling.

“No, thanks. I like my chest hair unsinged and my heart inside my body.”  
Bartrand had assigned the four of them to scout a detour around a cave-in that was blocking the path. Mostly it seemed to involve picking their way through shadowy corridors and fighting darkspawn, neither of which was on Hawke’s list of favorite things to do. The darkspawn in particular were difficult to face—they brought back memories of fighting her way out of Lothering, of the destruction of her family’s home and everyone she’d grown up with, of the ogre that had torn Carver to pieces.

The detour wasn’t the only thing they were hunting. Bodahn, the dwarven merchant who had accompanied the expedition, had asked for their help in finding his son, Sandal. Privately Hawke didn’t expect to find the boy alive, not with darkspawn everywhere, but she promised to look.

So she was startled when she came around a corner and found the young dwarf standing, apparently unhurt, in the midst of a pile of dead darkspawn.

“Hawke,” Varric whispered, nudging her. “Look.”

Following his gaze, Hawke saw a huge ogre hovering over the young dwarf’s shoulder and instinctively she began to run forward, sword raised. But then she looked closer—the ogre was frozen. Somehow it had been turned into a towering statue of crystal. Slowly Hawke came to a stop, lowering her sword, her eyes locked on the wide blue gaze of the dwarf.

“That is no ordinary dwarf,” Fenris said behind her.

“As always, a master of understatement,” Varric said.

Hawke walked cautiously toward the dwarf. “Sandal? Are you all right?”

He smiled at her, a sweet, friendly smile. 

“What happened here?” She looked at the ogre.

“Not enchantment,” he said, as if it was a great secret shared between them. 

“Yeah, I think I’m going to have to go with the elf on this one. Definitely not an ordinary dwarf.” Hawke smiled back at Sandal, who beckoned to her. He led them the rest of the way through the detour, and then back to where Bartrand waited.

Bartrand rubbed his hands together in glee. “And you thought this was a fool’s errand,” he said to Varric, who shrugged and rolled his eyes at Hawke. “Let’s go,” Bartrand continued. He pointed to Hawke. “You and your people go in front.”

“Your brother brought you along as darkspawn fodder? How sweet,” she murmured to Varric.

“What can I say? He loves me for my sparkling personality. And for the solid wall I provide between him and things that are about to eat him.”

They moved further through the thaig, looking around in wonder at the ancient carvings. At the end of a corridor they climbed a set of intricately mosaiced stairs and walked into a large room with a giant vaulted ceiling. In the center of the room was a dais on which lay a shining object. Hawke found nothing notable about it, except for a strange pulsing, but all the men reacted oddly. Fenris winced, his markings glowing faintly. Anders’s eyes widened, dilating slightly, and his cheeks flushed. Varric’s eyes narrowed, glittering, and he walked toward the dais as if in a dream. Hawke and the others followed him.

“What is it?” Hawke asked.

“Lyrium,” Anders and Fenris said, in identical tones of disapproval. 

Moving closer, Hawke studied the object. It was some kind of idol.

“Amazing,” Varric said in a hushed, almost reverent, voice she’d never heard him use before. 

“Anything I should know about?” Bartrand’s voice echoed through the chamber from behind them. 

“It’s an idol made of pure lyrium!” Varric lifted it off the dais. He hesitated for a moment, his thumb stroking the idol, before tossing it to his brother. 

Bartrand caressed the idol, his eyes gleaming.

“We’ll keep looking, see if there’s anything else worth finding,” Hawke said.

“You do that,” Bartrand said absently over his shoulder. He was walking out of the chamber, cradling the idol. Varric said something to Hawke, but she wasn’t paying attention. Something seemed … off. She turned around to look at Bartrand, only to see the door slam shut behind him.

“Bartrand!” she shouted, running down the steps, the others close behind her.

“The door shut behind you,” Varric called out.

“You don’t miss a thing, do you, brother?” Bartrand laughed.

“Wait, Bartrand! Think about this! What will you tell people?”

“It’s the Deep Roads, Varric. Anything can happen. But what’s not going to happen is me splitting this haul—and the extra coin I’ll make off selling maps to this thaig—three ways. Nice knowin’ ya, Varric.”

“BARTRAND!!” Varric threw himself at the door, but it didn’t budge. 

“Stand back,” Anders said. Hastily, Hawke and Varric moved aside, and Anders hit the door with every spell he could think of. Fireballs burst harmlessly against the door; ice crackled on it and slid off; giant lumps of earth thudded against it and bounced off again. Nothing worked. At last he doubled over, panting. “That’s it. I’m out of ideas. You dwarves and your sodding construction skills.”

“My turn,” said Fenris grimly. He approached the door and flexed his arms, his markings glowing blue. He thrust his fist against the door. There was a solid thunk. “ _Venhedis!_ ” he swore, rubbing his knuckles.

“Apparently that’s not going to work, either,” Hawke said.

“Very observant of you,” Varric said. 

“We’ll just have to find another way out, then.”

“Oh, yes, just like that,” Anders said sarcastically.

“Got a better idea?” Hawke challenged.

“No,” he admitted.

“Then start looking for a door.”

There was no way to tell how long they spent looking. Time in the Deep Roads seemed to stand still. Hawke couldn’t help thinking of her sister and her mother, left unprotected and alone on the surface. The urgency built in her until she realized she was hurling herself at the door over and over, sobbing and screaming “Open, you bastard!”

Strong, warm hands closed on her arms, pulling her away from the door, Fenris’s familiar deep voice in her ear. “ _Placa tu ipsi, tu imploro. Tu requiras. Tu requiro_ *,” he whispered. She didn’t understand the words, but the voice brought her back to herself somewhat; that and the knowledge that here, at last, was someone who remained calm when she fell apart. As she began to relax against him he abruptly let her go, and Hawke stumbled, catching herself against the wall, rubbing her hands over her face as she tried to recover from the panic that had grown in her. She heard all three voices whispering. 

“Anders, can’t you give her some kind of … calming spell? This can’t be good for her.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But it might be better to let her get it out of her system.”

“’Better’? To be in this condition? You are more of a fool than I have given you credit for, mage.”

Fenris’s acerbic tone was so wonderfully familiar that Hawke felt laughter bubble up inside her.

“You, elf? Advocating magic? Never thought I’d see the day.”

Fenris snorted. “Hardly. Merely pointing out the incompetence of the statement.” 

As Anders and Fenris began to argue again, Varric came over to lean against the wall next to Hawke. “Let’s be sensible about this, shall we? One at a time searches the walls methodically, the others rest. And collect treasure.”

She looked down at him, taking a deep breath. “Treasure. Really. What are we going to do, eat it?”

“No, we’re going to leave this place filthy rich and plot elaborate and expensive ways to kill my brother,” Varric said grimly. 

“You seem remarkably confident that we’re getting out of here.”

“Why not? Your exploits are too legendary to end like this.”

“You made all those up, Varric,” she said.

“Doesn’t mean they’re not true.” He grinned at her, and she shook her head, chuckling. 

“Incorrigible.”

“I do my humble best.”

She stood up. “Sorry about that,” she said to the others. “I’ll … try to hold it together better.”

“It’s understandable,” Anders said quietly. “You left more to lose on the surface than the rest of us.”

“That is not entirely true,” Fenris said. Hawke looked at him in surprise, and saw that little half-smile on his face. “I believe getting locked in a cavern in the Deep Roads is the most effective way I have found yet to lose Danarius’s trackers.”

“Way to see the bright side, Fenris,” Hawke said, but she couldn’t help her answering smile. “Just for that, you can take the first turn checking the walls. After all, you carry your own light.”

Fenris’s markings began to glow, and he looked at them with interested amusement. “The most practical use I have ever put them to,” he said. “Perhaps they are not always a curse.” 

At last, exhausted, filthy, burdened with more dwarven treasure than even Varric had imagined they might find, they staggered out of the Deep Roads. Fighting their way through brambles and underbrush, eventually they came to a muddy road.

“Ancestors be praised, Hawke, it’s a tavern!” Varric said, grinning broadly as he pointed to a rickety building near the road. “Let’s go get Blondie and the elf drunk.” Energized by the very smell of ale, the dwarf led the way, stumbling into the small inn—just a room, really, but the familiar tang of the malt and hops was in the air, and Varric breathed it in deeply.

The innkeeper bustled over, looking them up and down with trepidation. “Welcome, serahs.” The quaver in his voice made it a question.

Varric opened his pack, studying the contents. At least, he removed an emerald ring, tossing it to the innkeeper. “Ale, messere. As much as that’ll buy. Maybe something to eat, too.”

Grinning as he tested the gold band of the ring with his teeth, the innkeeper said, “You’ll be drinkin’ a long time.” There was a new respect in his tone.

“Just what I wanted to hear.” Varric settled into a chair with an audible sigh. “It’s not the Hanged Man, but it’ll do.”

Fenris and Anders took seats as far from each other as they could get, but both seemed pleased enough to be off their feet and out of the darkness.

“Serah!” Hawke called. The innkeeper stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “What day is it?”

“Eh?” The suspicion was back on the innkeeper’s face.

“We’ve been in the Deep Roads,” Hawke said impatiently. “But I don’t know how long.”

“Ah. It’s 17 Harvestmere.”

“Almost two weeks, Varric!” Hawke said. “Mother and Bethany must be worried sick.”

“We’ll get there, Hawke,” Varric said, patting her hand reassuringly. “Tomorrow.”  
The next day, they arrived in Kirkwall just as dusk was falling. Hawke hurried to Gamlen’s house, her heart swelling with the thought of the happiness on her mother and sister’s faces when they saw the riches she had come home with. She burst through the door. “Mother! Bethany! I’m ba—“ 

“Oh, Evelyn!” Her mother ran at her, throwing her arms around Hawke’s neck. “She’s gone! Bethany’s been taken to the Gallows! My baby! I’ll never see her again!” Choking back a sob, she said, “Why couldn’t you have taken her with you, where she would have been safe?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Calm yourself, I beg you. We need you. I need you._


	7. Year One: Bargaining

“Knight-Captain, all I’m asking is to have Bethany released for a short time. She was taken to the Tower most abruptly—we didn’t even have the chance to help her prepare. Or to say good-bye!” Hawke controlled her voice with an effort.

“With all due respect, Serah Hawke, do you think I’m a fool?” Cullen’s sympathetic eyes belied his harsh words. “You and I both know what would happen were I to allow your sister out of the Tower for so much as an hour. The name ‘Hawke’ would become a distant memory in Kirkwall, the recently filled Amell estate lying empty while you and your family flee. We’ve been over this before.”

Hawke took a deep breath, unable to argue with his statement. Her hand moved toward her coin pouch. “I know, but—we’ve just received payment for the last of the treasure we brought back from the Deep Roads and—“

“Say no more,” Cullen said sharply. “All your coin won’t help. While I understand the impulse, and the desperation, you run the risk of seriously offending me if you reach for that pouch again.”

“I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “It’s just—“

“I am well aware of how long you spent hiding your sister,” Cullen said. “You did it most successfully, I understand, both here and in Ferelden. But Kirkwall is a large town with the gossip of a small village. Sooner or later, we always find the hidden mages.”

Hawke thought of Anders, ensconced in his clinic in Kirkwall, and Merrill, tucked away in the Alienage, but she didn’t bother to argue with Cullen. “Will you at least consider the petition?” 

“No,” Cullen said bluntly, getting up from his chair. “I respect your abilities far too much to take that risk.”

Staying firmly seated, Hawke said desperately, “You know, I saved the Viscount’s son. He might be favorably disposed to a request from me.”

“Well, then, you can take this issue up with the Viscount. And he can take it up with the Knight-Commander, and she can refuse,” Cullen said. “In the meantime, Serah Hawke, let me say again that while I deeply regret that I have to say ‘no’ to you, ‘no’ is still my answer.”

“Thank you for your time,” Hawke said in defeat, getting up from the chair.

“I am not unsympathetic, Serah,” Cullen said. “Perhaps, sometime, I could … make it up to you?”

She met his eyes, bewildered, and realized with some surprise that he meant it as a romantic overture, however poorly timed. Right at the moment, she’d sooner date a Tal Vashoth. “Um … that’s very kind of you. I will … have to think about it.” She hurried from the room, frustrated and sad. 

Hawke had spent the better part of the three months since she’d returned from the Deep Roads trying to come up with a way to get Bethany out of the Gallows. She’d left the task of selling off their dwarven treasure to Varric, who assured her he was getting the best possible prices for the items. And she couldn’t complain—coin had poured in. There had been enough to buy back her mother’s childhood home, the lovely estate in Hightown that Gamlen had lost to a group of slavers, and to fix it up. Evelyn and her mother rattled around in the big, grand house, with only two servants—the dwarven merchant Bodahn who had accompanied them to the Deep Roads and his son Sandal—to share it with, but her mother seemed happy. Or as happy as she could be, with only Evelyn left of all her family. She had entrusted Evelyn with the task of saving Bethany from the Gallows, but seemed disappointed that more progress hadn’t been made.

Hawke was making her way through Lowtown toward the Hanged Man when a man stepped out of the growing shadows of an alley. “Anders!” she snapped. “Must you lurk in the dark like that?”

“According to the Templars, yes,” he said seriously. “What did the Knight-Captain say?”

“What do you think he said? He declined. Again.” Hawke scowled, striding along the street. Anders kept up with her easily.

“What are you going to do now? You can’t just leave Bethany in that place!”

“Anders, she’s my sister. Trust me, I’m highly motivated to get her out of there.”

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her to a stop. “I don’t think you are. Not enough, anyway.”

“I’m trying as hard as I can! We’ve been over this time and again, Anders. I can hardly storm the gates and drag her out by her hair.”

“You don’t seem to understand how much danger she’s in—they could be making her Tranquil right now! Bethany is … too special to let that happen to her.”

“Then you get her out,” Hawke whispered, trying to keep the image of her sister with that horrible sunburst branded into her forehead out of her mind. “Don’t you have contacts that can help?”

“I tried,” he said miserably. “She won’t come.”

“She won’t?” Hawke thought about that for a moment. “Maybe she’s afraid to escape—if she did that and they caught her, she’d be made Tranquil for sure. If not killed.”

“But you think she’d come with you?”

“I’m her family. I protected her for a long time.”

“Not long enough.” There was condemnation in his tone.

“Where do you get off criticizing me? What was my sister to you?” Hawke demanded.

Anders flushed, looking away. “It is difficult to control the spirit inside me when I am, er, distracted. But Bethany was different. Justice—“

“What?” Hawke said tartly. “Justice wanted to find a girl spirit and double-date?”

He looked at her reproachfully. Hawke sighed. Privately she thought if this was what her sister would be returning to, Bethany was better off in the Gallows. And she couldn’t help feeling a sting of resentment that while Hawke had sworn off men since they’d arrived in Kirkwall in order to focus on her sister’s welfare, Bethany had gone traipsing off to get involved with the least stable mage Hawke had ever met. It was enough to make Evelyn want to drag the next attractive man she saw back to that big empty bed in the fancy mansion in Hightown. Especially if that man happened to have green eyes and—

“I said, what are you going to do next?” Anders said impatiently. 

“I’m going to the Hanged Man and drink a lot,” Hawke said. “And I will think about what to do about my sister in the morning.” Her voice softened. “Are you coming?”

Anders sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Not tonight, I think. I need to make up some new potions.”

“Suit yourself.” Hawke watched him walk back into the shadows, heading toward Darktown. Someday, that man was going to be trouble, she thought. She only hoped she’d have the chance to defuse it before he hurt someone.

She continued on toward the Hanged Man, passing two men who were standing in the middle of the street, talking quietly. 

“ … apparently brief periods of lucidity,” one man was saying.

“Distressing. Most distressing,” said the other man. “Can we—“

“Hsst!” said the first, and both men’s heads swiveled toward Hawke as she walked past. 

Their sudden silence intrigued her, especially once she recognized them—ex-Guard Captain Jeven and the noble, Terrien, she had seen him talking to once before.

“Serah,” Terrien muttered as she passed. Jeven said nothing—apparently he still blamed her for being fired from his position. She walked briskly past them, nodding cordially at Terrien. No point in antagonizing the neighbors, no matter what kind of wastrels they associated with. Her mind turned over the possible meanings of Jeven’s words. Intriguing, the things you heard in the streets.

As she drew near, she could hear the raucous sounds of the Hanged Man, and her steps quickened, anxious to be inside in the noise, listening to one of Varric’s outrageous stories with a mug of ale in her hand and a few more warming her stomach.

Varric was holding court at the usual table. Aveline, settling slowly into her role as Guard Captain, was shaking her head at him. Aveline needed to remember how to have fun, Hawke thought, making her way across the room. Isabela lolled in a chair, her considerable charms openly displayed. As Hawke watched, a particularly brave young noble came up to the Rivaini, boldly trailing a hand up Isabela’s calf, only to find the business end of a dagger waving before his nose. He made exaggerated apologies, stumbling over the next table in his haste to get away. Isabela smiled her slow smile, stowing the dagger away. Merrill sat next to Varric, giggling at one of his more outrageous comments, her cheeks the bright pink that indicated she’d already had her single ale. Any more and she’d be fast asleep on the table, her head pillowed on her arms. Hawke and Varric had tried the experiment a few times, but Merrill invariably fell asleep after the second drink, no matter what she was drinking or how much it was watered down. 

Hawke’s eyes searched the dim corner next to the table, picking out the shimmer of the white hair. She grinned in Fenris’s direction, imagining she could see that half-smile in answer. But of course, the corner was too dark to actually see the expression on his face or have any idea what he was thinking. Not that she’d have known what he was thinking even if she could see his face. His man of mystery demeanor had drawn amorous attention from many of the females who frequented the Hanged Man, as well as some of the men, but as far as Hawke could tell, he hadn’t responded favorably to any of the hints and enticements sent his way. Not that she’d been watching, of course. 

“Hawke!” Varric called. “Set these people straight—they claim the griffon egg you saved was only twenty pounds. I’m sure it was at least fifty.”

“Fifty?! Varric, what nonsense. That egg was a hundred pounds if it was an ounce.” She grinned.

“Who am I to argue?” Varric asked his audience.

“I don’t know which of you is worse,” Aveline said, shaking her head.

“He is,” Hawke said immediately, just as Varric said, “She is.”

Hawke shrugged. “We’re a matched set. Except only one of us has a drink.” She looked around for Norah, the waitress, signaling for a mug. “And keep ‘em coming, Norah.”

“That bad?” Aveline asked sympathetically.

“I think he only agreed to see me so he could ask me out,” Hawke said bitterly.

“Cullen, eh?” Isabela asked. “Now there’s a stallion I’d like to take out of the paddock.” 

“He’s all yours,” Hawke said. “Any man with the stones to refuse to let my sister out of the Gallows for as much as an hour in one minute and ask to ‘make it up to me’ the next ought to be able to keep up with you.”

Isabela laughed lustily, causing male heads to turn her way all over the room.

“What will you do now?” Merrill asked.

“I don’t suppose you would consider that she’s safer there and leave her be.” Fenris’s deep voice cut through the babble in the room.

“No. No, I wouldn’t,” Hawke snapped, “and you can keep the rest of your comments to yourself. I’ve heard them all before, and none of them apply to my sister.” She glared in his direction.

There was a pause. “As you wish,” he said.

“How remarkably agreeable of you, Fenris,” she said. “You must be ill.”

His dry chuckle was the only answer she got, and she was unaccountably irritated at him for not rising to the bait and arguing with her.

Norah came by with another tankard of ale. “Messere, the man over there would like to buy this round.” She jerked her head toward a big man at the corner of the bar, who raised his own mug as Hawke’s eyes met his. She recognized him—he was a hulking black-haired brute named Thomason whom she and Varric suspected was high up in the Coterie. Hawke knew him to be a man of few words who could knock someone out with a single punch. In Ferelden, he’d have been just her type. In Kirkwall … she found herself surprisingly sanguine about the need to turn him down. 

“ _Ortrywe_.” The collection of syllables came faintly from Fenris’s corner, and Hawke turned to look at him. 

“Did you say something?”

“No.” His tone closed off any further questioning.

Hawke looked his way for a moment, mystified, then back at Norah, who was still wating with the offered mug. “Please tell the gentleman I said thanks but no thanks,” Hawke said. “And that goes for anyone else who wants to send me a drink until … until I say otherwise.” The waitress nodded and moved away. Hawke watched as Norah gave Thomason the message. He looked at her with smoldering black eyes that would have been enough to change her mind in another life. Then he shrugged and turned away. 

Hawke snagged an empty chair from the next table and straddled it. No sooner had she sat down than Fenris stood up. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said shortly, his face set and humorless, and stalked out.

“What’s wrong with him?” Hawke asked Varric.

The dwarf shook his head. “I don’t know—he was positively jolly, for him, before you got here. Maybe he doesn’t like you.” Varric grinned.

“You were pretty harsh with him,” Aveline put in. 

“You haven’t been on the receiving end of umpteen-thousand lectures on the evils of mages,” Hawke returned.

Isabela smiled lazily. “You’re all idiots,” she said.

“Thanks,” Hawke said. Aveline contented herself with scowling at the Rivaini.

Hours later, Hawke and Varric sat amidst the debris of the evening’s entertainment. “Hawke, you should go home,” Varric said.

“Home? You mean, back to a nearly-empty house where my mother is waiting up so she can glare at me when I come in—again—without my sister? Yeah, I can’t wait to do that.”

“She’s not that bad.”

“Actually, she’s worse. She doesn’t really glare. She sniffles in disappointment, and drags herself sadly off to bed.” Hawke sighed. “Varric, I don’t know what else to do. I can appeal to the Viscount, but I think Cullen was right—the best the Viscount can do is talk to Knight-Commander Meredith, and we all know what she’ll say. ‘Off with her head!’ Or … the alternative. Tranquil.” She shivered.

“Give it some time, Hawke,” Varric said. “We’ll step up our work, make your name an even more important one in this city, and see where that gets us. Trust me, my friend. I won’t let you down.” 

“Varric, how did I get so lucky as to meet you?”

He grinned. “I was bored, and you looked like you could liven up the place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Hopeless._


	8. Year Two: Realization

Fenris watched Hawke’s face out of the corner of his eye. She was reading the Viscount’s response to her most recent letter regarding her sister. Usually by this point in the letter she’d have been cursing the Viscount’s ancestry or at least making jokes about his flowery language, but she wasn’t responding to this one at all. She also wasn’t watching where she was going. Fenris grabbed her elbow, pulling her out of the way of a noblewoman and her retinue. Hawke merely glanced up, muttered something, and looked back at her letter.

They left the keep, starting down the long stone stairs. “What did the letter say?” he asked.

She glanced at him. “Didn’t you say talking about it was just encouraging my delusions? How did you put it—oh, yes, jousting the Gallows. An opponent I can never unhorse.”

He had put it that way in one of their arguments. He just wasn’t aware that she remembered it. “Possibly so,” he said. “However, you seem remarkably calm about this one, which makes me curious.”

“Oh. No, it’s nothing new. Just that he regrets the situation, doesn’t see what he can do about it, but certainly hopes this won’t change my commitment to making my home here in Kirkwall. Nice to know the Viscount appreciates having the taxes paid on at least some of Hightown’s estates.” Her blue eyes sparkled teasingly.

“Aveline has done a remarkable job of keeping the Seneschal away from my residence,” Fenris admitted. Occasionally he considered finding somewhere else to live, but he was used to the mansion. And he found he enjoyed the sensation of ownership, false though it might be. “But my point stands,” he said. “Bethany’s been in the Gallows for nearly two years, and in that time you’ve received multiple letters saying essentially the same thing, all of which you reacted to … badly.” He thought of the last letter, two months ago, and couldn’t help chuckling. Aveline had been horrified when she’d found out Hawke had strung her collection of old moth-eaten scarves all over the Viscount’s office, and had threatened to put Hawke in jail for the prank. Varric had talked her down—the dwarf could talk the taint out of a darkspawn—but Hawke was still in Aveline’s black books over the incident.

Hawke shrugged, sighing. “It’s all started to seem so futile. I’ve bribed and threatened and promised and cajoled and begged. I’ve done everything but strip for Knight-Captain Cullen—“

“You never know, that might work,” Fenris said, watching her face closely and striving to keep his voice even. It was none of his business if she was interested in the Knight-Captain, or anyone else, for that matter. If Hawke ever decided she was ready to get involved with someone she had many more attractive options than an escaped elven slave. But he felt a tightness in his chest that eased when she shook her head.

“Please,” Hawke said, grimacing. “Cullen’s nice enough, but he’s got no sense! Every time he says no, he turns around and asks me for a date. I even agreed to go out with him once, out of desperation, and all he could talk about was mages and how they needed to be locked up.” She grinned at Fenris. “He should have been out with you. The two of you would have had lots to talk about.”

Fenris didn’t think it was necessary to dignify that remark with a response. 

“Not your type?” she asked. 

For a moment, he thought he saw a genuine curiosity behind the teasing, and he hastily changed the subject. He didn’t want Hawke, of all people, probing into his ‘type’. Someday, in a moment of weakness, he might tell her. “Are you giving up?” he asked, going back to the original topic. 

“On Bethany? Of course not! I won’t rest until I get her out of there. But her letters—she’s not unhappy. And she won’t let Anders break her out through his mage underground.”

“Sensible girl. I have always thought so.”

“I’m glad she won’t go with him, too.” Hawke sighed. “It just feels as though I’m going through the motions for something she doesn’t even want anymore. I’m starting to wonder if maybe she isn’t better off.” She stopped walking, looking straight at him. “Please don’t say ‘I told you so’, Fenris.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said softly. It gave him no pleasure to be right when she was so obviously conflicted.

“Thank you for that. I—“ For a moment it looked as though she was going to say something more, but then someone walking past jostled her and the moment was gone. “I’m starving. Are you hungry?”

“I suppose.”

“Good. I know just the place.”

“Mystery meat stew at the Hanged Man? You know, you could always eat at home.”

“Alone with Mother and her disappointment? Or Bodahn and his ever-present obsequiousness? I don’t think so. Besides, today you’re buying.” She grinned at him.

Fenris thought of his terminally empty coin pouch. “I … am?” And then he realized where they were, and couldn’t help groaning. “Hawke, you don’t want to eat here.”

She paused outside of Mistress Blodgett’s. “Why not? You eat here all the time.”

“Yes, but it’s hardly up to your usual standards.” Fenris was used to eating anything he could scrounge. Hawke’s tastes in food tended to be more exacting—now that she had the coin to do so, she frequently ate at the city’s better restaurants. Often with Varric; occasionally with Aveline; more rarely with her mother. 

Hawke pushed the door open. “Well, I’m here now. Let’s give it a shot.” She wrinkled her nose at the smell that came from the inside of the shop, and Fenris was sure she’d change her mind, but she smiled gamely and went on in.

The horrendously bad pies weren’t the only reason Fenris was reluctant to have Hawke and Mistress Blodgett in the same place. Both women had come to mean a great deal to him during his time in Kirkwall—Hawke because she had saved him and given him a purpose, and Mistress Blodgett because she fussed over him in a way he imagined a mother might. Each of them had slipped beneath his defenses somehow to see a vulnerability in Fenris that he had allowed no one else to glimpse. He was afraid that if they came together, the vulnerabilities would connect somehow and he would be left exposed. Or worse, one or both of them would turn away from him. Deep down, he knew the fear made them both a weakness he shouldn’t allow himself … but Mistress Blodgett’s simple trust and Hawke’s easy companionship made Fenris feel like a free man, and that feeling was too new and intoxicating to risk losing. 

Mistress Blodgett looked up as the door opened, her ridiculous curls flopping to the back of her head. “Duckie!” she said happily. “I’ve kept yours aside for you. And … Serah Hawke, ain’t it? A true pleasure, Messere. ‘Bout time our boy here brought one of his friends around.”

Fenris groaned inwardly as Hawke tried to smother a smile. It was as bad as he’d expected.

“It’s nice to meet you as well, Mistress Blodgett,” Hawke said. “I’ve heard so much about you.” She cast Fenris a mischievous glance.

“So tell me, my dear,” Mistress Blodgett said, attacking the dough with her rolling pin and sending clouds of flour flying, “does our young man here have his eye on anyone special? He won’t tell me.” She simpered at him, and Hawke made a strangled sound, either from the flour or from holding in her laughter.  
Well, it could be worse, Fenris thought philosophically, trying hard not to look at either of them. Varric could be here. Or Isabela. Or Varric and Isabela.

“I … ahem, I’m sure I don’t know,” Hawke said at last. “He’s rather close-mouthed on the subject.” Her face was a bit red. It wasn’t that funny, Fenris thought with some annoyance.

“Did you say you were keeping my pies aside for me?” he asked, hoping to halt any further conversation between the two women. 

“Of course, duckie!” Mistress Blodgett turned around to the storage shelf, retrieving Fenris’s pies, which tended to be somewhat more fresh than the rest of what she kept on hand.

“Why don’t you give those to Serah Hawke, and I’ll have two regular pies,” he suggested.

Hawke looked questioningly at him, and he raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

“Whatever you say.” Mistress Blodgett handed the pies to Hawke, who took a bite. She froze halfway through chewing the first bite, her eyes widening … and then she kept chewing and swallowed. Fenris’s appreciation for Hawke’s generosity and loyalty went up several notches—he’d seen a number of people take their first bite of a Blodgett pie, and few of them had made it to the swallowing. “What do you think?” Mistress Blodgett said eagerly. “Too much cardamom?”

“No,” Hawke said slowly, “the cardamom was just right. Have you, um, tried paprika?”

“You think that would help?” Mistress Blodgett leaned across the counter, planting her elbows in the middle of the dough. 

“Couldn’t hurt,” Hawke said. “I might add a little cumin, as well.”

“Really,” breathed Mistress Blodgett. “Cumin.” She stared wide-eyed at Hawke.

Hawke leaned over the counter, as well, the two women soon deep in conversation about herbs and spices. Fenris could do nothing more than stare, bemused. Hawke knew how to cook? It seemed there was no end to her many talents. He imagined what she might look like, gauntlets deep in dough, flour streaked across her nose. Of course, she’d be unlikely to wear armor while cooking, he thought, and realized he didn’t even know what Hawke might wear if she wasn’t in armor. He’d only seen her in her battle-ready plate or in the lighter spare set she wore when the plate was inconveniently heavy. His mind went immediately to various items of clothing he had no business imagining her in. With an effort he pulled his attention back to the conversation before his imagination wandered too far and got him into trouble.

“Herbs are mighty dear,” Mistress Blodgett was saying wistfully.

“Why don’t you grow your own?” Hawke asked. “In Lothering, I had a lovely garden—“ She broke off, looking at Fenris excitedly. “I could have one now! There was no place for plants in Lowtown, but the estate has plenty of outdoor room. I’ve been so focused on Bethany, I’ve never thought about it.” 

Her eyes were sparkling, her features more animated than he’d ever seen them, and he found himself wanting to smile along with her, an impulse so rare he’d nearly forgotten how. “A cook and a gardener? Next you’ll inform me that you’re also a mabari breeder.”

“Oh, I wish,” Hawke said. “Kirkwall needs more dogs.”

“Ugh, nasty beasts,” Mistress Blodgett said, shuddering in disgust. “Although,” she added thoughtfully, “lots of meat on a mabari …”

Hawke’s eyes widened in horror at the very idea, and Fenris hastily stepped in to turn the conversation. “Why couldn’t you grow your own herbs?” he asked. “You could turn that upper loft into a greenhouse, with a bit of work. All those windows must let in a great deal of light.”

Mistress Blodgett glanced at him, something dark in her eyes. “Can’t do that, duckie,” she said. “That’s haunted, that is. I wouldn’t dare.”

“Haunted?” Hawke leaned on the counter again, intrigued. Or perhaps just trying to hide the fact that she’d never finished the first pie. 

“Oh, yes,” Mistress Blodgett said. “Tragic story. Used to be let by a barber. Remarkable man. Had a silly little wife, head in the clouds type. Little girl, too. All gone now,” she said, turning briskly to her oven. “Go on with you now, duckie. Got to get back to my work. Pleasure to meet you, Serah Hawke.”

“You, too,” Hawke said. Fenris followed her out of the shop, realizing that he was cold only when the sun’s rays, filtering between Lowtown’s buildings, were warming him. “Strange woman,” Hawke said. “Friendly, though. She sure seems to like you.”

“Indeed.” Fenris devoutly hoped Hawke would let it go at that.

“I’m going to go talk to Bodahn about starting my garden,” Hawke said. She looked up into the sky and sighed. “It’ll be nice to be out in the sunshine more … to have dirt under my fingernails instead of blood.” She chuckled, but without humor. “Or in addition to the blood, anyway. Fenris?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For staying with me today. It’s—different, somehow, like after all this time I’m having to let go of my sister. I … didn’t want to be alone.” Her blue eyes met his, soft and open. The sudden vulnerability in her face provoked a tenderness in Fenris that he had no memory of ever feeling before. He wanted to comfort her, protect her, as he had in the Deep Roads when she’d fallen to pieces and attacked the locked door. There he had gone to her because the circumstances hadn’t allowed him time to think. Here the impulse was softer, sweeter, less urgent, and he knew better than to allow it consideration.

“You’re welcome,” he said at last, when he could trust his voice. She nodded and turned away before he could ask the question clamoring at the back of his mind: why him? Why not Varric, or Aveline, to keep her company if she’d needed it? The truth was, it was probably better that he didn’t know why she’d chosen him. It was enough to think that he had helped today, by being there, by listening, the way she so frequently listened to all of them.

He stood there in the street, watching her walk away. Part of him thought he should leave now—he’d been in Kirkwall, taunting Danarius, long enough. The instinct to flee was strong. Danarius would come for him eventually, there was no question about it. How much the better if Fenris wasn’t here when he arrived. But even as he gave himself the lecture, he knew he wouldn’t go. And he was a fool not to, because that woman was as dangerous as his former master, but in a whole new way that simultaneously excited and terrified Fenris down to his very bones.


	9. Year Three: Acceptance

“This has come together nicely,” Aveline said. She leaned back, lounging on Hawke’s newly acquired garden bench, looking around at the flourishing plants.

Hawke looked up from the middle of the strawberry bed. “It has, hasn’t it?” she agreed. She tossed her friend a plump strawberry. “Fortunately for me, Sandal has a green thumb. Merrill and Anders have helped, too. And the other day I saw Varric pull a weed.”

“You did not,” Aveline scoffed.

“No, really. He checked to make sure no one was looking first. But you, on the other hand …” Hawke sat back on her heels, pulling off her gardening gloves. “You’re making an unusual appearance in my garden.”

“I’m not the domestic type,” Aveline said stiffly. “Wesley was. He did all the … housewifery.”

Hawke smiled gently at her friend. Aveline mentioned Wesley more often these days. Hawke took this as a sign that the other woman’s grief was growing more bearable with time and she was able to think of her late husband with greater ease. “So what’s on your mind, Aveline?”

The red-head sighed. “Hawke, it has to stop. I’m telling you this as a friend.”

“I know, Aveline. I know.” Hawke tugged at a dead strawberry vine, pulling it free. “I’ve only written two letters in the past year. One on Bethany’s birthday, one on the second anniversary of the day they took her. I just … I miss my sister!”

“I miss her, too.” The guard captain looked sympathetically at her friend. “But—“ She bit off what she was going to say, looking doubtful.

“But what? You’ve never pussy-footed around a subject before,” Hawke said.

“Has it occurred to you that you’re using your sister as an excuse to keep from living your life?” 

“You mean the same way you’re using being guard captain?” Hawke shot back. The two women stared at each other, unbudging, for a long moment. 

“It isn’t the same,” Aveline said at last. “Being guard captain is my life, at least for now. But you’re hiding. You haven’t taken a job in months, you’ve left the work on the mansion for your mother to do—“

“She needed something to keep her mind off of Bethany. Besides, she wanted everything just the way it was when she grew up here. Lucky me,” Hawke said, making a face.

“My point stands,” Aveline said firmly. “You’re hiding in this mansion, in this garden, and it’s not healthy. It’s time for you to start thinking about what you want out of your life, for a change.”

“I know you’re right. Varric said the same thing, asked me what I planned to do now, and I couldn’t answer him.” Hawke sighed. “It’s become increasingly clear that Bethany’s actually happy in the Gallows. I think she’s met someone, unbelievably enough. She doesn’t want to leave. But ever since Bethany and Carver were born, protecting them has been my role. Bethany was always so delicate, and Carver so reckless. Without them both … I’m at a loss. Who am I without a battle to fight?” 

“The Guard is always looking for skilled people.”

“Me? A guard? Are you crazy?” Hawke stared at her friend in surprise before recognizing the twinkle in Aveline’s green eyes. She relaxed, grinning. “I should have known you wouldn’t let me sully your precious guard.” 

“Well, you didn’t hear this from me,” Aveline said, “but Kirkwall was a safer place when you were a Lowtown soldier of fortune than it is now that you’re a Hightown noble. You did good work out there, helped a lot of people.”

“What, you want me to move back in with Gamlen?”

Aveline chuckled. “Hardly. But there’s nothing stopping you from going back to work. You were good at it, people trusted you to help them, and you seemed to enjoy it.”

“Yes, I suppose I could do that,” Hawke said. She thought about going into battle again, with Varric and Bianca at her back, with Fenris at her side. She’d been avoiding the elf recently, avoiding the constant temptation of being in his presence and not allowing herself to want what she wanted. And she realized that for the first time since she’d met him there was nothing standing in her way, no reason to deny the feelings he stirred in her any longer. The question was, were they returned? And that answer didn’t seem like it would be easy to get.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
“Blondie, what are we doing hovering around the Gallows? If you’re caught out here—“

“If you keep talking, that won’t be an ‘if’ much longer,” Anders hissed.

“At least we should have tried to bring Hawke along. It would have been good for her to get out of the house,” Varric muttered. He didn’t like going into these situations without the tall human with the big sword, especially not when the leader of the mission was an unstable mage. 

“Hawke’s not committed to the cause of mages,” Anders said sadly. “If she was, she wouldn’t have given up on her sister this way.”

Varric let that one pass. He wasn’t about to get in the middle of Hawke and Anders and their disagreement over Bethany—neither of them needed his two coppers on the situation anywhere near as much as they both needed his companionship when it came to ale-drinking time. The mage issue in general was one he was happily willing to let float over his head. As long as he had coin enough to keep his two mages safe, that was as much involvement as he needed in the problem.

Suddenly, Anders meowed like a cat. It was such a realistic sound that Varric caught himself looking around for a feline. “You’re very good at that.”

“I miss my cat,” Anders said sadly. “It’s a useful skill, though—makes a good signal.” They waited in silence for several minutes before they heard the soft scuffing noise of shoes on the cobblestones.

Two men came into view: one, a tall man with wild white hair wearing cheap clothes; the other, a slim black-haired young man in what looked like innocuous everyday clothes, but to the trained eye were obviously Templar civvies. “Good, you’re here,” the incognito Templar whispered to Anders as they came closer.

“I’ve been waiting, Trevor,” Anders said. “What took so long?”

“It isn’t easy, you know,” the Templar snapped. He turned to the white-haired man. “Drury, let’s get you out of the city. Quickly, before anyone knows you’re gone.”

“I’m not leaving.” The white-haired man’s voice was a hoarse monotone that sent chills down Varric’s spine. 

“What?! I told you we’d have to take you out of Kirkwall,“ the young Templar whispered frantically.

“I know what you said. I cannot go.”

“You have to!” Trevor looked at Anders with exasperation. “Tell him he has to get out of here.”

“Kirkwall isn’t safe for escaped mages,” Anders explained gently.

Drury shook his head. “I have work to do. Until it is done, I can’t leave.”

Varric watched as Anders and Trevor looked from each other to Drury and back again, clearly not prepared for this attitude at all. It wasn’t overly surprising—Trevor looked a bit like an eager puppy, and Anders rarely saw beyond his own beliefs, assuming what he thought was right would be what everyone else thought, too. “Is there anywhere in the city we can escort you?” Varric asked Drury. If this disturbing escaped mage intended to stay in town, Varric intended to know where he took up residence.

“Mistress Blodgett is still in operation, I assume?”

“Still trying to poison the populace,” Varric agreed.

“Then that is where I must go.” 

“Wait, what?” Varric looked to the other two men for help, but they appeared mystified, and Drury wasn’t waiting for commentary. The escapee was already striding through the Gallows courtyard. Varric hurried after him, with Anders and the Templar following. Drury clearly knew where he was going, turning each corner decisively, looking neither right nor left. 

They were walking through the shadows of Hightown when they heard the voice, a lovely, ethereal voice singing a rather old-fashioned song. It came from one of the nobles’ houses. Drury stopped in his tracks as if caught in a trap, looking up.

“Serah?” Anders asked. “Are you well?”

“That song,” Drury said hoarsely. “Someone I … knew … used to sing that song.”

“It’s beautiful,” Trevor breathed. He stared up at the windows of the mansions, straining in the darkness to see the singer. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

Varric looked around uneasily. It didn’t pay to stand around in Hightown after dark. It would be just his luck to run into Fenris and get one of his lectures on the dangers of smuggling mages out of the Gallows. And that was the best-case scenario. “I think we should get moving,” he said.

Drury shook his head, the dreamy look that had stolen across his face fading. “You are correct, dwarf.” He moved purposefully away from the sound of the woman’s voice, not looking back. Trevor, on the other hand, walked backward, still staring up at the window, entranced.

At last they reached Mistress Blodgett’s. Trevor held out his hand to Drury. “Good luck to you, Serah. From here you’re on your own … but if you take my advice, you’ll get as far from Kirkwall as you can. You have powerful enemies.”

“Thank you,Trevor,” said Drury. “You’ve been good to me. I won’t forget it.”

“I wasn’t about to stand around and let them make you tranquil, not when I could help you. I’ve never even seen you use your magic,” Trevor said. He nodded, turning on his heel and hurrying out of Lowtown.

“My thanks to the two of you, as well,” Drury said, bowing to Anders and Varric. 

“Are you sure it’s wise to stay in Kirkwall?” Anders asked worriedly.

“Wisdom has nothing to do with it. I have business to attend to.” Drury nodded to them again and pushed open the door of the pie shop. Varric made a mental note to warn Fenris about the company Mistress Blodgett kept—the last thing any of them needed was for Fenris to run into an escaped mage unprepared. That wouldn’t end well.

“Thanks for your help, Varric,” Anders said.

“I’m not sure how much help I was,” Varric said lightly, but inwardly he resolved to keep a closer eye on Anders. If this was the kind of person being set free, Varric thought the operation needed a lot more oversight.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Fenris sat in his favorite corner of the Hanged Man, deeply ensconced in the shadows. He felt fairly safe from prying eyes here. Few of the regulars paid him much attention anymore, and it was rare for a newcomer to notice him. He sipped at a mug of ale, his face twisting at the bitter taste. He much preferred wine, which was why he always drank ale when amongst other people. Ale lasted him a long time, each swallow a choice, whereas wine slipped smoothly over the tongue before he noticed it and had a tendency to lead to a truly distressing talkativeness. Especially in the company of—

“She’s not here.” The voice was accompanied by the clunk of a large tankard of ale being set down next to his.

“Who isn’t here?” He glared at Isabela, hoping she would get the message.

“Hawke.” Isabela looked at him with warm, knowing eyes. “Please, as if it isn’t obvious,” she said, laughing, obviously taking his silence for disagreement with her premise. “You’re a shadow, hiding yourself away in corners, trying to keep from being noticed. Until she walks in. Then you find a way to get that pretty white hair to shine in the light; your voice comes out of the darkness, all deep and sonorous.” She shrugged one half-bared shoulder. “It doesn’t take a genius to read those signals.”

“How very poetic,” Fenris said noncommittally, taking another sip of ale. Did he really do that? And did Hawke see it as clearly as the pirate had?

“Relax,” Isabela said. “Incredibly enough, I seem to be the only one who’s noticed. You’re not even an entry in the pool.”

“What pool?” 

Isabela’s amused gaze traveled to his clenched fist, and with an effort, Fenris relaxed it. Smirking, she said, “The one betting who’s going to be the first into our lady’s much-sought-after knickers. Yours truly is in third.” 

Well, that was an image. Fenris cleared his throat. “Indeed.”

Isabela sidled closer, until he could feel her long, practically naked thigh pressed against his. “You’re dying to know who the front runners are, aren’t you?” she purred into his ear, her lips brushing it ever so faintly. 

Against his will, Fenris shivered. Elven ears were very sensitive, and judging by Isabela’s triumphant chuckle, she knew it. He grasped her shoulder angrily, pushing her away. “Never touch me,” he growled.

Undaunted, Isabela smiled at him. “And you wonder why you’re not a candidate,” she said. “Varric is, though. He’s in second.”

That was a less intriguing image, by far. And not worrisome. But Fenris did wonder who was considered most likely to win Hawke’s affections. He’d been steeling himself for months waiting for the inevitable moment when she decided to live her own life, instead of her mother’s or her sister’s. He’d promised himself not to hate the lucky man on sight just for being what Fenris could not.

Isabela stood up then, propping a booted foot on the chair next to Fenris. Her tanned, nearly bare thigh was almost at eye level, and she bent, studying her boot buckle, so that more tanned and nearly bare flesh hung temptingly before him. She may not have been to his taste, but it was impossible not to appreciate the display.

And, of course, that would be when Hawke came in. She was with Anders, laughing at something the mage had said. Fenris hadn’t been aware that the abomination had a sense of humor.

“He’s the front runner,” Isabela said.

No. That was not possible. Hawke had better sense than that. Didn’t she? Fenris fought to keep the shock and anger off his face, but Isabela’s smirk told him he hadn’t entirely succeeded. 

“Isabela, put that thing back in its sheath,” Hawke called, approaching the table. She was grinning at the pirate, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes, and her tone was crisp and chilled. 

“Just checking my buckles, love,” Isabela said, but she gave an obvious wink to Fenris before putting her leg back on the floor. Fortunately, Hawke didn’t seem to see it, as she was occupied talking to Anders again. What could the man possibly have to say that was so funny? 

Isabela took up her giant tankard and leaned against the wall. The sizable chunk of coin she’d written into the betting book on the field seemed very safe—a little more prodding and the dark horse should be ready to burst out of the gates. As Fenris self-consciously tried not to attract Hawke’s attention and Hawke pretended she wasn’t watching him, the Rivaini smirked into her mug.


	10. The Good Kind

Hawke made her way up the stairs, her heart pounding in a ridiculously adolescent way. It was hardly the first time she’d propositioned a man—what was so nerve-wracking about this one? It had taken her months to get up the courage to have this conversation in the first place, and she’d spent ten minutes standing outside the door of the mansion before pushing it open. They all did that now, barged in without bothering to knock. Hawke figured there were enough rooms in the mansion Fenris could hide if he didn’t want the company, but he didn’t seem to mind the intrusions.

As a matter of fact, he already had company. She heard voices as she reached the landing. Recognizing the rich drawl, Hawke came to a stop as if her boots were glued to the carpet. Isabela. Had she waited too long? Had Isabela swooped in while she agonized? Hawke leaned her head against the wall, feeling defeated. She hadn’t forgotten the night she’d come into the Hanged Man and found the pirate dangling her assets in Fenris’s face. What man wouldn’t want Isabela? The woman was sex on a plate. Hawke didn’t have any false modesty—she knew she could be pleasing to the eye when she wanted to be—but Fenris usually saw her sweaty and blood-spattered and hardly at her best, while battle only seemed to add a fetching flush to Isabela’s cheeks and a wild-eyed lust that if anything made her more desirable.

Hawke wanted to cry. All this time, trying to smother her attraction to him, and now to lose him to Isabela just when she had worked up her courage? Her shoulders slumped, and she turned, leaving the way she had come.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Fenris’s keen elven ears had heard the distinctive sounds of Hawke coming up the stairs—the light jingle of her armor, the sure-footed whisper of her boots across the carpet. It was still mildly disconcerting to him that the others all felt comfortable simply barging into the mansion, but he was hardly going to ask them to ring the doorbell of a supposedly empty estate. And part of him, a part he kept tightly hidden, even from himself, liked it. It made him feel like one of them, as though he belonged somewhere. 

After a moment, Hawke turned and walked back down the stairs, moving quietly. Isabela, still jabbering on about the tax collector, hadn’t heard her. Fenris was irritated at the Rivaini suddenly. Would she never shut up? 

“Thank you, Isabela,” he said, cutting her off in mid-story. “I appreciate your efforts.”

“Do you?” She lounged in his extra chair—Hawke’s chair—with one leg thrown casually over the arm. In that position, it was obvious what she wasn’t wearing under that brief sailcloth tunic.

“Yes.” He stood up, waiting for her to do the same.

“Have it your way,” Isabela sighed, getting up from the chair. She didn’t look overly disappointed, however, and Fenris assumed she had better fish to fry elsewhere. He couldn’t say he cared. All he really wanted was for Isabela to leave so he could find out what Hawke had wanted.

At last she was gone, and Fenris hastily followed her down the stairs, slipping through the shadows of Hightown. He rang the bell at Hawke’s estate, waiting until Bodahn opened the door.

“Ah, messere!” 

“Is … uh, Hawke in?” He felt awkward asking for her this way, like some stammering schoolboy. It was not a sensation he enjoyed.

“Yes, serah. Come in!” Bodahn’s cheerful smile didn’t fade as he motioned Fenris inside. He led Fenris to Hawke’s office, where she was perusing a stack of what looked like bills.

“Bodahn, next time my mother goes shopping, let’s remind her that we can’t actually fit the contents of every store in Kirkwall inside the house,” she said, not looking up.

“You have a visitor, Serah.”

Hawke lifted her head, her eyes meeting Fenris’s, and she froze, looking guilty. “Oh. Um. Hi?”

“Hawke.”

Bodahn looked from one to the other, and hurried off without another word.

“Come in, Fenris. Have a seat. Is there, um, anything I can do for you?”

“I just wondered what you wanted. At the mansion, earlier.”

“How did you know it was me?”

Now it was Fenris’s turn to freeze. He couldn’t tell her that he knew her firm footfalls, the clank of her armor, that sometimes he could tell how she felt from hearing her breathing change. She was agitated right now, her breath coming faster than usual. “Lucky guess,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing.

“Good guess.” She laughed slightly, watching as he sank into the leather seat opposite hers.

“So.” 

“Uh-huh.”

They looked at each other for a minute. “You came by for a reason, I assume?” he said finally.

Hawke bit her lip, looking conflicted. “How long have we known each other, Fenris?”

“Three years or so. Why?”

She swallowed. “Um … We haven’t talked about Danarius in a while. Are you still expecting him to show up? It’s been three years.”

That wasn’t what he’d expected. Not at all. “There has been no sign of him,” Fenris said. “I cannot imagine that he would give up … but I do not know why it would be taking him this long.”

“Maybe he’s dead.”

Fenris snorted in humorless laughter. “Not he. I will believe that monster is dead when I hold his dripping heart in my hands. Not before.” He looked at his fists. He could almost see Danarius’s ribcage in front of him, and he shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. “It bewilders me,” he continued quietly, “that he has done nothing.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“I want to kill him! If he never comes, I can never stop waiting for him.” He gathered control of himself with an effort. “Tell me, Hawke. What do you do when you stop running?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” 

“You feel as though you’re running?”

“No, I feel like I’ve finally stopped. And … I don’t know what to do. I suppose the best answer I can think of is to start over.”

“A fine idea. But I wouldn’t know how.” He stared at the tattoos on his arms, revealed by the opening in his armor. Then he looked up into her blue eyes, and suddenly he wanted her to know what had been taken from him, that there was a black empty space in his mind where whoever he used to be had been burnt away. Taking a deep breath, he said, “My first memory is receiving these markings, the lyrium being branded into my flesh. The agony wiped away everything. Whatever life I had before … it’s lost.” 

Hawke gasped. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

“You could not have known. It is not something I generally reveal.”

“You don’t know anything about who you were?”

Fenris shook his head. “Even my name is not my own—Danarius bestowed it upon me. His ‘little wolf’. Whatever name I had before, any family or friends, they were taken from me. All of which leaves the question open: If all that I am is what Danarius made of me, how do I know how to start over?” He sighed, getting up from the chair. “I’m sorry. I should not trouble you with this. You don’t need me to burden you with my problems.”

“Everyone else does; why shouldn’t you?” She didn’t sound particularly bitter, seeming to take their constant neediness as a fact of life.

Fenris thought of Merrill’s tainted mirror, Isabela’s lost relic, Anders’s recent conviction that a conspiracy was afoot to turn all mages tranquil, Varric’s determination to find his brother and enact his revenge, Aveline’s requests for assistance. They all did come to Hawke with everything that bothered them, but to his knowledge no one—not even Varric, it seemed—ever asked Hawke if anything bothered her.

“Perhaps one of us could occasionally listen to your problems.” Fenris looked at her with concern. “Is there anything troubling you, Hawke?”

That strange mixture of fear and guilt, and maybe a little excitement, was back in her face. “I …” She pushed the chair back, standing up, her eyes searching his face. “There is something. A problem. To do with you.”

“With me?” He racked his brain to think of what he could have done to disturb her. “Hawke, whatever it is …” He heard his own voice as if it came from someone else, the softness and the vulnerability there, and he stopped himself. “If you tell me what I have done, I will do my best to rectify the situation.”

“It’s not anything you’ve done, it’s, uh, the good kind of problem.”

The good kind? Fenris was mystified. How could a problem be good? “You’ve lost me.”

He’d never seen her this agitated before. He’d never seen her at a loss for words, either. Fenris moved around the desk, closing the space between them, thinking only of finding some way to resolve whatever problem had her so disturbed. He didn’t realize how perilously close to her he would be until it was too late. Her blue eyes met his, widening and softening, and her sweet mouth opened, her tongue reaching out to moisten her lower lip. Suddenly Fenris couldn’t remember what they had been talking about, and his tongue flicked over his own lower lip in unconscious imitation of hers. All he could do was stare at her mouth, somehow so close. A single step would put him in reach of her. 

“Fenris, I—“ She looked him in the eyes, and understanding flooded through him, turning his whole body molten with a kind of heat he could never remember feeling before. Time hung suspended between them, time in which he struggled between the certain knowledge that this was not a good idea and the weak longing that urged him to take that step, to taste her kiss. He could almost feel her in his arms, and it seemed that he might not be able to fight his desire.

And then he stepped back, looking away from her. “You are a beautiful woman, Hawke. Surely there must be others who have your … attention.”

“You’ve fought at my side almost every day for three years. If there had been anyone else, you’d have known.”

Desperately he sought to remind them both of the realities. “I am an escaped slave and an elf, living in a borrowed mansion. Do none of those things bother you?”

Hawke shrugged. “I’m a human and a barbaric Fereldan refugee who kills people for money. Do those things bother you?” 

“You have me there.” He had to tell her no, he told himself. He had to make it clear that this could never be a good idea, that she needed to find someone worthy of her, someone who didn’t come with as much darkness in their past as he did. “Your interest is most flattering,” he began. “I cannot deny that I am tempted. Very much so,” he whispered. The sudden happiness in her eyes was more intoxicating than the finest vintage he’d ever tasted. He couldn’t remember ever wanting anything as much as he wanted to give in to her right now. But even as his control on himself began to slip, fear wormed its way into his mind. Could this be real? A woman like this, a man like him? Or did she want a mere dalliance, the thrill of the unfamiliar? It unnerved him to think of opening up to another person. How much worse if he did so and her interest was merely casual. He went on more briskly. “This is not an opportunity I ever expected to be presented with. I am not certain that I … am in a position to accept. I will need to … consider.” He couldn’t look at her.

“For how long?” It was practically a whisper.

“I can’t say.”

“Very well,” Hawke said crisply.

He stood there miserably for a few more moments, before walking on rather weak legs toward the door. Then it occurred to him that she might not realize he was doing this for her sake, to protect her. He stopped, looking at her over his shoulder. “It was not my intention to upset you.”

She studied him briefly, then her face relaxed into a smile. “You haven’t. Anything else would have been—unFenrislike.”

He chuckled. “I suppose it would, at that.”

“Well.” Hawke resumed her seat behind the desk, picking up the pile of bills again. “We have a meeting at the Hanged Man later.”

Fenris was grateful for her return to business. Once again, he had to appreciate her generosity. “I will be there,” he said gruffly, taking his leave before any more emotional upheavals could occur.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Hawke’s next visitor was Varric. “What are you doing up here?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “The next installment of ‘Hard in Hightown’ is going badly. Thought I’d take a walk and get some ideas. Got any?”

“Ideas?” Hawke was glad she’d never been much of a blusher. The deep gravelly tone in Fenris’s voice when he’d said ‘tempted’ earlier had given her quite a few ideas, but she didn’t plan to share any of them with Varric. Not that she didn’t trust her friend … but she also didn’t want to be the star of his next dirty serial. “Not a one.”

“Come for a walk, anyway. Something interesting must be going on in this town. Maybe we’ll run into some mercenaries who are out to kill us.”

She shook her head. “I thought you wanted to find something interesting. All the mercenaries in this town want to kill us.”

Varric grinned. “Maybe we’ll find some who want us to kill them.”

“Now that would be a refreshing change of pace.”

They crossed through a courtyard in the midst of Hightown Estates, passing a dark-haired young man going the other way.

“I know that boy,” Varric said quietly. “Anders’s helper in a certain endeavor, if you follow me. Name’s … Trevor, I think.”

Hawke looked the young man over with interest. He didn’t look like a Templar—too young and open-faced. All the Templars seemed to have a certain hardness about them.

Trevor was looking up at the windows of one of the houses rather than where he was going, and he cannoned into an old woman who stood in the midst of the square. 

“Sorry, mistress,” the young man said.

The old woman looked up into the Templar’s face. “Alms?” Hawke recognized her as the woman they’d seen in the Lowtown market years ago, the one who had called Justice forth out of Anders. She’d never seen Anders and Fenris come so close to killing each other as they had that particular evening.

The young Templar dug into his pocket for a coin.

Taking it, the old woman bit it to determine its authenticity. Satisfied, she dropped it into the patched reticule that hung from her wrist. “Watch yourself,” she said to Trevor. “Young men who loiter about Serah Terrien’s get themselves in trouble.”

“Serah Terrien’s?” the boy echoed. His eyes brightened eagerly—clearly, he was disregarding the warning. “Do you know the woman who lives there? The one with the beautiful voice?”

The old woman’s eyes widened in fright. “No, no, stay away from Susannah! Trouble for her. Trouble for you.” Still muttering, she fled from the square.

“Susannah,” Trevor repeated. His eyes clung to the windows of the house as he continued out of the courtyard.

“I think he’s going to wish he’d listened, if the things I’ve heard about Terrien are true,” Varric said.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Hawke shook her head. “Terrien’s known to be strict with the girl, to put it mildly.”

“Make a good story, though.”

“It would, at that.” Hawke grinned at her friend. “Let’s go get something to eat. I hear they’ve got bronto ribs on special at The Fat Nug.” Varric made a face. “Come on,” Hawke cajoled. “We’re so close to figuring out what they put in the sauce. Just think how Dougal Gavorn would hate it if we could recreate his chef’s special seasoning mix.”

“Okay, but you have to keep the Merchant’s Guild off me. I swear, those dwarves live for meetings,” Varric grumbled. 

Later, they met with the others in Varric’s room at the Hanged Man. Hawke supposed they could have had meetings at her estate now, but they were all used to the Hanged Man—it never seemed worth changing the pattern. 

“Any new business?” Hawke asked, leaning back in her chair and looking around the table.

“One of the workers from the Bone Pit came to the clinic yesterday,” Anders said.

“What was his problem? Repetitive motion injury from lifting too many ale mugs?” Hawke asked. The Bone Pit’s workers were notorious malingerers. Some days she thought the half-interest in the mine she’d been given as a reward for killing some dragonlings wasn’t worth the effort it took to keep the workers motivated.

There was a general chuckle in response to her words, but Anders shook his head seriously. “This was Hargis, one of the more conscientious workers. He said there’ve been strange rumblings in the mine.”

“Such as the sound of men, you know, mining?” Hawke asked.

“Those men give Fereldans a bad name,” Aveline said, clucking her tongue in disapproval. “Not that we don’t already have one.”

“Just telling you what the man said. He seemed legitimately nervous,” Anders said.

“If anything’s seriously wrong, I ‘m sure Hubert’ll come running, wringing his hands. ‘Oh, ‘awke, zat mine! What will we do wiz it?’” Varric said, his voice rising in imitation of the mine owner’s Orlesian accent.

“No doubt,” Hawke agreed. “Meanwhile, we have to track down that shifty dwarf, Javaris Tintop, before he gets himself in trouble with the Qunari’s poison gas formula.”

“The Coterie seem to be after him, as well. Maybe we can pry some information out of them,” Varric said.

“Sounds like a job for Fenris,” Isabela drawled. “That fisting thing he does can be very persuasive.”

No response came from the elf’s corner, and Hawke glanced his way. He was staring at her mouth, his eyes half-lidded. She caught her breath, feeling that gaze as surely as if he’d touched her. Then a shadow passed across his face, sadness replacing the desire in his eyes, and he looked away from her.

Well, she hadn’t expected this to be easy, had she?


	11. Satinalia

Hawke kicked the door in as soon as she heard the feeble scream from within. Over Hawke’s shoulder, Fenris could see a blonde woman kneeling at the feet of a man who wore the embroidered clothing of a noble. At the splintering of the door the girl looked frantically in their direction, relief dawning in her eyes as they stepped through the door’s remains. Obviously, the nobleman was guilty of something terrifying, Fenris thought as the girl scrambled toward them, if a heavily armored woman, a dwarf with a massive crossbow, a mage in a moth-eaten coat, and a tattooed elf seemed safer. 

“Please help me,” the girl begged. “He took my blood! He’s going to do something—“

“Run,” Hawke said grimly. The blonde needed no further prompting, and hurried from the room.

“Wait, no!” the nobleman protested. “You do not understand.”

“I think we do, blood mage,” Anders sneered.

“I needed her blood to track her! That is all.”

They’d been sent to the home of this nobleman, Gascard DuPuis, on the word of the Templar Emeric that DuPuis was his best suspect in the disappearances and murders of several women from Kirkwall. The disappearances went back several years. Before the expedition into the Deep Roads, they had found body parts belonging to the missing women in an abandoned foundry.

“Tell me another one,” Hawke said.

“No, you do not understand,” DuPuis said. “This man, this monster—he took my sister! I am certain that he murdered her.”

“Which man is that, exactly?”

“He is a killer of women. They are taken from their homes and never seen again. He is here, in Kirkwall! If I do not stop him, he will kill again.” He gestured wildly at the door the blonde had gone through. “Alessa was to be next. He even sent her the lilies. You must believe me!”

“And the vials of blood we found in your home?” Fenris asked. 

DuPuis didn’t bother to look at the elf, his eyes remaining on Hawke. “Yes, I have used blood magic and lyrium, but only to augment my powers.”

“Why not tell the guards what you knew, if you’re so close to finding him?” Varric asked. 

“Because I do not want him imprisoned,” DuPuis said, clenching his fists. “I want his blood dripping from my fingers.”

“Vivid,” Hawke said. She cast a look over her shoulder at Fenris. Was she remembering that he had said something similar about Danarius and comparing Fenris to this slimy snake before them? Fenris hoped not. His emotions—his very thoughts—had been in turmoil since she had revealed her attraction to him, but he didn’t want her to see him as some kind of revenge-obsessed maniac. “Nonetheless,” Hawke continued, “I don’t think I believe you.” She drew her sword.

“No!” DuPuis’ eyes widened in panic. “You must not! I am too close for it to end here!” He muttered a few incomprehensible words, jabbing himself in the hand with a small pocketknife.

“Maker’s balls,” groaned Anders as shades rose from every shadow in the room. “I hate blood mages.”

“For once, abomination,” Fenris ground out, drawing his own sword, “we agree on something.” He leapt into the air, his sword coming down through the dark mass of one of the shades. Bianca cried out behind him, Varric shouting his usual fulsome praise for his beloved weapon. Fenris found himself side by side with Hawke, their blades moving in concert, slicing into the burning manifestation of rage that rose before them. She cast him a wild grin as the rage demon disappeared in a shower of sparks.

Fenris followed Hawke from the room, chasing DuPuis as the blood mage ran through the mansion, calling shades and demons into life behind him. A desire demon began her bewitching dance, filling Fenris’s head with erotic images of the beautiful warrior with the powerfully muscled legs. Heat rose within him, and he fought to quell it. He darted forward, sword scoring the grey flesh of the desire demon, interrupting the spell she was casting. Her eyes strove to catch his, to create a bond between them, but Fenris ran her through with his sword before she could tempt him further. Truly, no demon was as enticing as Hawke looked right now, the flush of battle animating her face, her hair coming loose from its bun, her body moving and twisting as she wielded her sword. Fenris could have watched her all day, had more shades not been rising from the dark corners of the room.

At last, DuPuis stood at bay, panting from the effort of the magic and the resultant blood loss. “This is a mistake.” He looked pleadingly at Hawke.

“One less blood mage is never a mistake,” Fenris said.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Anders concurred.

Hawke shrugged. “I make it a policy to go along any time these two manage to agree on something. Or do I run screaming in fear?” She grinned at Varric. “I can’t remember precisely which.”

“How about both?” the dwarf answered. “In this case, I’m with Broody and Blondie. Let’s take out the blood mage.”

In answer, Hawke drew the dagger she carried and stabbed DuPuis in the heart. “There. Kirkwall’s streets are minus one serial killer,” she said with satisfaction.

Fenris was behind Hawke and Varric as they left the mansion.

“Is everything ready for tomorrow night?” Hawke asked.

“Hawke! Who do you think you’re talking to? It was born ready.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Hawke protested.

“Did you understand what I meant?” Varric asked. She sighed in exasperation, nodding her head. “Then it made plenty of sense,” he concluded smugly.

“You’re both coming, right?” Hawke turned around, walking backward, looking anxiously at them. Well, mostly at Anders, Fenris noticed. Since their discussion in her office, she either looked at Fenris too long, as though she couldn’t tear her gaze away, or not all. Both were equally disturbing. Because he wanted to respond to her bravery in kind, but Hawke was too important to him to expose her to what he was truly capable of. Fenris was well aware what a danger he posed to those who put their trust in him. But if he couldn’t bring himself to overcome his fear, would he lose her altogether? Her friendship was as dear to him as anything Fenris had ever known, and he stood to lose it no matter which direction he turned. Was it any wonder he was frozen in indecision?

“Coming to what?” Anders asked, rousing Fenris from the reverie he’d fallen into.

“Satinalia party! At the Hanged Man. Varric assures me it will be the party of the age.”

“I thought that was the Summerday party,” Anders said.

“Oh, no, that was merely the party of the decade,” Varric said airily.

“I might as well go,” Anders said. “It’ll save all the partygoers the time it would take to come see me at the clinic.”

Fenris longed to go, to spend the evening with Hawke, to possibly end the evening with Hawke. The very idea took his breath away. But the fact that he wanted it didn’t make it a good idea. He stayed silent, and no one pressed the issue with him.

The following evening found him at Mistress Blodgett’s. “Happy Satinalia, duckie!” she said as Fenris came in. The elf nodded at her lodger, who sat at his usual table. Serah Drury had opened a barber shop above the pie shop, clearing away the years’ worth of cobwebs and dust that cluttered the upper garret. He was a strange man, with hair as white as Fenris’s own and an outlook on life that exceeded Fenris’s in gloom. After some initial wary circling, the two men now got on quite well.

Fenris took his seat, accepting pies and ale. 

“Not celebratin’ with your friends, duckie?” 

“No.”

“Fools dancing around in masks? You’re wise to avoid it, lad,” Drury said. “You’re better than that.”

Fenris didn’t feel better. Not going to the party only postponed the agony, it didn’t help him out of the miserable state of limbo he was suspended in. He downed the pies quickly, intending to go back to the mansion and break open the new case of wine.

“I’ve been thinkin’ what you could do to drum up business,” Mistress Blodgett said after a few moments, looking over at Drury.

“Oh?” Drury asked.

“You could have sort of a contest-like. Find some other barber—like that Antivan fella, what’s his name? Barber merchant type.”

“Vincento,” Fenris supplied. Hawke had been instrumental in sending Vincento’s half-elf mage son to live with the Dalish. Over Fenris’s strenuous objections—he’d believed, along with the boy’s mother, that young Feynriel belonged in the Gallows. 

“Vincento, that’s the one!”

“You’d want to be certain you can win,” Fenris said. The others both gave him a look that said they had no worries in that regard. “In that case, it sounds like a fine plan.”

“Wouldn’t want to help, would you, duckie? You could be the volunteer!” Mistress Blodgett shook her curls beseechingly at him.

“Hawke keeps me pretty busy. Besides, I’m an elf. I’ve no need for a shave,” he pointed out, almost apologetically.

“Oh,” Mistress Blodgett said. She lifted the dough off the counter, plopping it onto a pie. 

The shop door opened, the three occupants turning to look at it in surprise.

“Serah Drury!” said the young dark-haired man who entered. “I was hoping you were still here.”

“Trevor,” Drury said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I came … There’s a girl. A beautiful girl! I’ve seen her now, sitting in her window, singing. She’s Serah Terrien’s ward, Susannah.” The young man’s eyes turned dreamy and he stared off into space, clearly seeing the girl in his mind’s eye.

Fenris didn’t miss the way Drury and Mistress Blodgett stiffened at the mention of the girl’s name.

“What makes you think I know anything about her?” Drury asked.

“You heard the singing! You said you knew the song. You must know her.” Trevor sat down at Drury’s table. 

“I’m sorry, boy. I cannot help you.”

“You know what’s good for you, you’ll stay far away from there,” Mistress Blodgett said. She looked fearfully in Drury’s direction before returning to the pie in front of her.

“I can’t,” Trevor sighed. He leaned his head against the wall. “Ever since I first heard her sing, she’s haunted my thoughts.”

Drury and Mistress Blodgett exchanged looks. Fenris slid off his stool. “I’ll wish you all a good night,” he said, sensing that it was a good time for him to be off about his business. He didn’t want to stay and listen to the young man’s lovesick rhapsody. Not when Fenris’s thoughts were haunted, as well, by a woman he couldn’t have. He couldn’t stop himself from wanting Hawke, even though he was too afraid, of himself and of her and of the future, to allow himself to reach for her. 

He returned to the mansion, uncorking a bottle and sinking into his favorite chair. The wine rolled over his tongue, and he carefully guided his thoughts onto the usual track—dreams of his revenge against Danarius. It was hard to keep his mind from wandering, but he didn’t practice self-control for nothing.

When the knock sounded at the mansion door, he was deep into his second bottle. It took him some time to process the sound—no one knocked at his door. Certainly not at this hour. They all just walked in. He got reluctantly out of his chair, walking over-carefully due to the intoxication and the loose floor tiles that covered the landing. He paused at the door, wondering if he should be concerned. But then, Danarius wouldn’t knock, either, he thought, grimly amused by the idea.

At last he opened the door. Hawke stood there, looking at him, and he stared back, frozen to the spot. Something in him had known it would be her, and for a brief second he wished he hadn’t opened the door, that he’d kept whatever she wanted at bay. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he was stepping back, inviting her in. Clearly he wasn’t making wise choices tonight.

It was raining out, and her hair was plastered to her head. And somehow she was still beautiful, the water droplets running down her face making her look remarkably soft and vulnerable.

“What brings you here at this hour?” he said abruptly, trying to pretend he didn’t see the flash of hurt in her eyes at the bluntness of the question.

“You didn’t come to the party,” she said, her eyes never leaving his.

Fenris shook his head. He didn’t understand why she had chosen him for this pursuit. A keen observer, he had no trouble understanding his appeal to someone like Isabela, whose interest was piqued far more by a refusal than an acceptance. But Hawke? A woman of her grace and beauty and intelligence surely had no need to stoop to an escaped slave for satisfaction. Part of him expected her to come to her senses any time now. “I am surprised you left so early.”

“Oh. Well, once Isabela started trying to teach Varric to bellydance, I thought that was a good time to take my leave. You should have been there,” she added wistfully.

“I don’t celebrate Satinalia.”

“How do you know?”

He blinked, remembering that he had told her about the loss of his memories. Why had he told her that? It wasn’t something he usually shared with people. “Slaves don’t celebrate holidays.”

“You’re not a slave.”

“Perhaps I don’t enjoy parties.” It was hard to focus on what he was saying with her standing in front of him, looking so … touchable. He’d had entirely too much wine to allow her to remain. Hopefully if he was short enough with her, she would leave.

“That’s ridiculous,” Hawke scoffed. “Everyone enjoys parties. Anyway, Satinalia’s not just about parties.” She took a small oblong package from under her cloak and held it out to him. “It’s also about presents.”

Fenris couldn’t help it. He recoiled. This normalcy, with the presents and the celebrating and the outright pursuit, that he was being asked to accept was too much. But her face fell, the smile and the expectant look fading, and he reached out automatically and took the package in mute apology. He undid the wrapping, the book inside falling open in his hands. “It’s a book,” he said blankly, and then fell silent, not knowing what other remark to make about it.

His reaction obviously confusing her, Hawke offered brightly, “It’s a subject you’re familiar with.” He frowned, looking at her for clarification. “It’s about Shartan,” she said. “The elf slave who joined Andraste’s rebellion. Do you know about him?”

“A little,” he said, looking at the book with renewed interest and a familiar longing. “It’s just … Slaves are not permitted to read. I’ve never learned.” He hated to admit that, to have this shameful shortcoming exposed to her, and when he met her eyes he saw the guilt and pity he had been hoping to avoid. But then he saw something else, anger maybe, burning in their blue depths.

“It’s not too late to learn.”

“Isn’t it? Sometimes I wonder.”

“I’d be happy to teach you, Fenris.”

“That’s not necessary, thank you, Hawke,” he said coolly. Her condescension was certainly something he didn’t need.

“I disagree,” she said in the voice of command. “I think it’s quite necessary. I’d have taught you before now if I’d known.”

“So I have no choice?” He didn’t know why he was being so disagreeable. He wanted to know how to read—had always longed to—so why was he turning down her offer so forcefully?

“No. You don’t.” Hawke moved closer, and he studied the book, the black markings that made so little sense to him, to avoid looking up into those beautiful eyes and feeling what she made him feel. “You’re not a slave anymore, Fenris, and you’re too intelligent to let an opportunity to learn pass you by.” She went past him, opening the door. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “I’ll be back on Tuesday for your first lesson.” The door closed behind her with firm finality.

Fenris closed the book, cradling it tenderly to his chest, and carried it with him back up to the study. He took his accustomed seat and attempted to resume his fantasies of revenge, but all he could think of was her.


	12. Can't Judge a Book

“Evelyn, I wanted to talk to you. If you’re not busy?”

It was rare for her mother to lay in wait for her. Usually they spoke only in passing; their daily lives didn’t often intersect. Leandra was trying to reintegrate herself amongst the Kirkwall nobility, and having a daughter who was a mercenary made that even more challenging than having a daughter who was a mage. Evelyn sighed inwardly, knowing Varric would be arriving any minute. “What can I do for you, Mother?”

Leandra motioned to the bench in front of the window, waiting until they were both seated before she spoke. “I need to apologize to you. I’ve been unfair—you tried as hard as anyone could to get your sister out of the Gallows.”

“You were upset,” Evelyn said, patting her mother’s hand. “It’s only natural.”

“But you are all I have.”

Evelyn tried not to hear the subtext, the unspoken ‘I’ll have to make the best of it’. “You, as well. We shouldn’t let anything come between us.”

“Exactly.” Leandra looked around at the spacious landing. “It is so strange to be back here again, here where I grew up, to see my child walking the halls my mother used to walk. And I have you to thank for bringing me back where I have longed to be, for restoring this house to its rightful place. I … Your accomplishments have been extraordinary.”

“Thank you,” Evelyn said. These moments, with her mother’s attention solely on her, had been few in her lifetime. This was the first she could remember that wasn’t about something she had done for one of her siblings. 

“It’s time that we both moved on with our lives,” Leandra went on. “Bethany seems content enough, and Carver …” Her voice broke, as it always did when she thought of him. “Carver wouldn’t want us to waste our lives mourning for him.”

“True.” Evelyn had only told her mother that a few hundred times over the years since Carver’s death. It was nice to know at least once she’d been listening. 

“So, I think it’s time to find you a husband,” Leandra said.

“A what?”

“A husband. Come, you can tell me. Is there any young man who has your … attention?”

Evelyn remembered the way Fenris had looked and sounded when he’d used the same words. The memory was still vivid despite the weeks that had passed, and she closed her eyes against the sensations it evoked.

“Ah, there is someone,” Leandra said archly. “Do tell!”

“No, not really. No one in particular,” Evelyn said. She knew precisely how it would go over if she told her mother of her feelings for the tattooed elven ex-slave, and she had no desire to end this unusual bonding moment that way. Fortunately, just then Bodahn came up the stairs with the news that Varric was waiting.

“All right, then.” Leandra squeezed Evelyn’s hand. “Leave it to me. I’ll find you someone absolutely suitable. It was good to have this talk with you, dear.”

“Yes. Yes, it was.” Evelyn kissed her mother on the cheek and went with relief to meet her friend.

Hawke and Varric left the house, heading across Hightown toward the Chantry. 

“You seem strangely happy to see me today, Hawke. I know I’m a fine specimen of a dwarf, but I never thought I was your type before. Or is that just a greatsword in your pocket?” He waggled his eyebrows, and Hawke laughed.

“Don’t flatter yourself, shorty. You arrived just in time to save me from a conversation with my mother on suitable husband candidates.”

Varric whistled. “I’m surprised it took her this long. You’re highly marriageable, assuming any of these soft nobles could get past the giant blade and the disreputable company you keep.”

“I don’t know where she got the idea that I’m even interested in—“ 

“Humans?” Varric smirked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, Hawke, what do you think? That I’m blind? Have to be blind and deaf and downright passionless to miss the looks you and the broody elf have been giving each other. When are the two of you going to get past the circling stage and end the suspense for the rest of us?”

Hawke narrowed her eyes at her friend, fixing him with her most intimidating glare—the one that even occasionally worked on the Qunari—but Varric’s cheeky grin stayed put. “How about you keep your nose out of my love life?” she said in exasperation. Then, spying a slender figure sitting on the edge of a courtyard fountain, Hawke smiled. “Or I’ll have to say something about yours. When are you going to stop looking at what you want and do something about it?”

Varric followed her gaze, his eyes softening as he recognized Merrill. The elf had her knees drawn up to her chest and was animatedly talking with a young blonde woman while an armed guard—the girl’s, Hawke assumed—hovered glowering next to them. “You and I both know that’s a hopeless cause, Hawke. She takes her responsibilities to her people too seriously to consider a dwarf.” The carefully lacquered mask he glazed his features with threatened to crack, and Hawke watched him sympathetically. Then the moment passed and the usual cheer returned. “That’s Terrien’s ward there, isn’t it? Wonder if that Templar kid’s been hanging around.” They were within earshot now, so Hawke only shrugged.

“The Dalish sing during our rituals and … well, we sing a lot,” Merrill was saying, her face animated.

“I love to sing.” The blonde girl leaned toward Merrill. “When I sing, it’s almost as if I could fly—leap right out of my window and fly away somewhere …” Her voice trailed off, her eyes following the trail of the invisible bird she was conjuring in her head. Then a sadness came over her face, clouding the bright hope that had been shining in it.

Before Merrill could respond, the frowning guard motioned the girl back into her estate. She smiled over her shoulder at Merrill, but made no protest, meekly preceding the guard into the house.

“Poor thing,” Merrill said, joining them. “A caged bird.”

“You live in the Alienage, and you feel sorry for her?” Hawke said.

“There are cages, and there are cages,” Merrill said. “My own hand closes the door on mine, and that makes all the difference.”

“Can’t argue with that.” 

They walked on for a few minutes before Merrill asked, “Where are we going?”

“To the Chantry. Remember the lay brother who used to be Prince of Starkhaven? A few years back we killed the mercenaries who’d slaughtered his family.”

“Oh, yes. So sad,” Merrill said. “Can I come? I promise to behave.”

Hawke and Varric glanced at each other and shrugged. “Why not, Daisy?”

The Chantry was buzzing, as always. “You know,” Varric remarked as they walked toward the giant statue of Andraste, “I always thought the Chantry was supposed to be a place for quiet reflection. Instead, it’s the largest gossip hub in the city. You can hear everything there is to know in this town in here.”

As if to illustrate his point, two sisters passed them chattering animatedly about an upcoming wedding … and the groom’s predilection for nights at the Blooming Rose with the brothel’s resident male elf, Jethann.   
Merrill turned around, listening avidly as the two sisters walked away, and Hawke was relieved to spy Sebastian, former Prince of Starkhaven, before Merrill could ask any innocently awkward questions.

“Serah Hawke,” Sebastian said, smiling at her. “The years have been kind to you.”

“Sebastian. Courtly as always,” Hawke said.

“Early training does tend to stay with a person,” Sebastian said cheerfully. “My mother taught me to be courteous to all ladies … even when I’m about to ask them to help me track down a set of murderers.”

“Your mother clearly covered all the contingencies,” Varric remarked. “Smart woman.”

“She was, indeed.” Sadness passed over Sebastian’s features. “That is why I asked you to meet me here.”

“I was under the impression that when we took out Flint Company we had avenged your family’s deaths,” Hawke said. “Have you uncovered more information since then?”

“I have. I now know the name of the family who hired the killings done. The Harimanns—they were friends of my family’s, but as is the way, resented my family for being royalty while they were merely nobility.”

“There’s a difference?” Merrill asked, looking interested.

“A big one, Daisy. Nobles need money to feel superior. Royalty get to think they’re better than anyone else even when they’re penniless.” Varric glanced at Sebastian. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, messere,” Sebastian said ruefully. “I’ve tried to leave all that behind me, but I don’t know that I always succeed.”

“So what do you need me to do, Sebastian?” Hawke asked. “I assume you don’t want me to kill the Harimanns.”

“Of course not!” Sebastian looked shocked, then smiled when he realized Hawke hadn’t been serious. “But you knew that. I need to speak with them, to find out why—“ His voice cracked, and he was silent briefly as he fought to control his grief. “I would feel safer if you would accompany me when I go to see them. In case they’d like to make it a clean sweep. I am the last of my line, as you know.”

“I am at your disposal. When would you like to go?”

Sebastian sighed. “I had intended to go immediately, but on reflection I think I should wait until I can speak to them without flying into a rage, or weeping uncontrollably. Until then, if you could use a bowman, please feel free to call on me.”

Hawke thanked him and said she’d do that, and she and the others left the Chantry.

After lunch, the others went home. Hawke picked up the battered book she’d unearthed from the single trunk of belongings she’d brought from Lothering, and set out to walk the short distance to Fenris’s mansion. They hadn’t talked about her intention to teach him to read, but she was certain he hadn’t forgotten. As she pushed open the door, it occurred to her that he might not be home, that he might have left to avoid the embarrassment. The suspicion was heightened when she didn’t find him in the study at the top of the stairs. She muttered to herself as she began searching the place, kicking aside chunks of plaster that had fallen from the walls and swiping at the cobwebs. 

“If he thinks I won’t hunt him down and teach him wherever I happen to find him, he has another—“

“Anyone I know?” His voice came at her from a doorway a few feet down the hall.

Hawke hadn’t been expecting it, and she started, twisting her ankle painfully when it came down on a broken chair leg. She fell heavily against the wall, bruising her shoulder. “Ow!”

Fenris leaned against the doorway, one dark eyebrow raised. “Don’t the walls have enough holes?”

“Oh, very funny,” Hawke snapped. “Was that really necessary?”

“Not exactly.” His face didn’t alter from its usual dark expression, and Hawke felt her irritation rising. Okay, so maybe this was embarrassing for him, but it was for his own good—did he have to make it this so difficult?

“Let’s get started, then.” She pushed past him into the room and stopped a few steps in. This had once been the estate’s library, and Fenris had obviously spent some time clearing it out. The floors were mostly empty of debris, the furniture picked up and put in its proper places, and the desk was free of so much as a speck of dust. Books were stacked on the shelves rather haphazardly—a fraction of the number the shelves could have held, and many of them bearing evidence of having been an erudite feast for the resident mice. Hawke felt a measure of relief. Fenris may not be happy about this, but it appeared he had accepted the inevitability. “I brought a book—“

“Is that what that is?” He glared at the worn volume in her hand. “Did you dig that out of the refuse in Darktown? I see how essential this task must be that you—“

“This is the book my father taught me to read with,” Hawke said sharply, cutting off his vitriol. She tightened her lips to keep him from seeing how his words had hurt her. He was rarely this spiteful; he must be very uncomfortable. 

“Oh.” Fenris swallowed. “Well, then.”

“That is, if you’re willing to accept a book that has been touched by a mage,” Hawke said, spiteful in her own turn. They’d get nothing done until his anger was defused. “After all, my father was an apostate long enough to raise three children. This book must be positively infused with magic, after all that.” Fenris was silent, staring at the book and then at Hawke, and it occurred to her that maybe that did bother him. She felt simultaneously nauseous and angry at the thought. 

The moment stretched as narrowed blue eyes met narrowed green ones. “I fail to see why this is necessary,” Fenris muttered at last.

“Why what is necessary?” 

“Knowing how to read.” He said it in a very low voice, looking away from her. “It has never mattered before.”

“Damn it, Fenris, how long are you going to let him control you? You’re his puppet as surely now as if he still held your leash.”

“Shut your mouth!” The blue glow snaked along his markings, the telltale sign that Hawke had found the right nerve. Years of arguing had taught her that he had to be pushed through his barriers, and she pressed harder.

“You know it’s true. Not being able to read is a shackle that holds you to Danarius, no matter how far from Tevinter you might be.” 

“Stop, Hawke! I’m warning you!” 

She moved closer, urgently trying to reach in past the walls he held up so firmly. “Be a free man, Fenris! Be willing to admit you have something to learn; let me teach you! I learned when I was a 5-year-old child, there’s nothing stopping you—“

“Do not mock me!” He took a threatening step towards her. 

His anger didn’t frighten her, and she stood firm. They were standing so close together that Hawke could feel the heat emanating from his body and smell the faint electric tang of the activated lyrium. Warmth filled her belly, her knees growing weak. “I’m not mocking you,” she said, pulling herself back to the topic with some difficulty.

“Aren’t you? You compared me to a 5-year-old child.” There was still an edge to his voice, but the anger had faded, the blue flare receding along the lines of his markings. “Is that how you see me?”

“No. I definitely don’t see you as a child,” she whispered. It was unnerving—suddenly the cadence was all different, the familiar rhythm of their arguments altered by the new tension that lay between them. 

Hawke’s eyes traced the curve of his sensual mouth. So little space separated them, it would be so easy simply to lean forward … Then he stepped back, breaking the moment. 

“Fine. Let’s get started.”

She took a deep breath to steady herself. It was a useful bargaining chip, their mutual unslaked desire, but she couldn’t say it made her happy that kissing her was such a frightening thought it made less palatable options seem like the better choice.

The lesson went relatively smoothly after that. Fenris was still prickly about his lack of knowledge, but she had expected that, and understood it. And as she had predicted, he picked up the basics fairly quickly, considering they were starting from scratch. After about an hour, she agreed to store her precious book in a drawer in the desk—having received his solemn promise that he would make sure no mice got to it—and they left the mansion, heading for the Hanged Man.

They moved down the dark steps toward the deserted Hightown market. A shaft of moonlight crossed the courtyard, lighting up Fenris’s face as he stepped into it. He stopped, looking seriously at her. “Hawke, I’m sorry about earlier. Shouting at you was unnecessary.”

Hawke shrugged. “It’s what we do. I shouted at you, too.” 

“Not in the same way.”

“The point is that it worked, didn’t it?”

He moved toward her, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. “Thank you, Hawke.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said. 

There was a pause as they stood together, nearly touching. Hawke could feel her heart pounding. If she moved he would run, she was sure of it. But how long was it going to take him to give in to what they both felt? 

“Perhaps …” He took an audible breath and started again, his voice dipping huskily. “Perhaps I could find another way to express my gratitude.” His gloved hands came to rest on her hips, hesitantly at first. Then his grip tightened, holding her firmly. She shouldn’t feel the heat of his touch through the metal and leather, she couldn’t, but she did. Hawke sighed as his head tilted, his mouth coming closer to hers. 

“THERE’S THE ELF!” The voice came out of the darkness. Hawke and Fenris jumped away from each other. With practiced ease they drew their swords, as men came down the steps of the market. They stood in a circle around the two as the leader, a large man with a bristling blond beard, crossed his arms and glared at Hawke.

“You are in possession of stolen property, messere. Back away from the slave and you won’t be harmed.”

“Fenris is a free man!” 

“Hunters,” said Fenris.

“Leave the pretty lady alive—we’ll take her, too,” called the leader. Fenris growled, the lyrium coming to life so that he shone blue in the shadowy marketplace. 

At the leader’s signal, the circle closed, the men rushing Hawke and Fenris. There were fewer of them than Hawke would have expected—someone had skimped on the payment, or had severely underestimated Fenris.

Fenris stiffened suddenly, an agonized sound forced from his lungs. Crushing prison; they had a mage with them, then. Well, that might account for the relatively small number of men. Hawke slashed at the fighters surrounding her as she searched the shadows looking for the mage. She found him on the edge of the courtyard. He was far from cover, standing in the open. He looked too young to be trusted with such a task. Foolish boy. Hawke spun around in a circle, the greatsword held at neck level, slicing into the unprotected throats of several of the Tevinters. Those helmets with the open face weren’t the best choice, she thought, ducking the arterial spray from one of the hunters. While the men were distracted, she attacked the mage, leaping high into the air and bringing the sword down. He had the presence of mind to shoot a lightning bolt at her, which knocked her leap off balance and resulted in Hawke only landing a blow to the mage’s head with the flat of her blade, instead of chopping his skull open. But the crushing prison around Fenris eased, which was good enough. And the mage crumpled to the ground, moaning and clutching his head.

Fenris was in motion now, his sword only a blur as he attacked the hunters. Hawke saw moonlight glint on a blade to her right and ducked just in time, feeling the sword whistle over her head. She clonked the assailant in the head with the pommel of her sword. Spinning it in her hands, she ran the tip into the chest of her attacker, feeling the end of the blade scrape bone.

They were all down, now, the hunters no longer a threat. Hawke smiled at Fenris in relief, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes searched each body, and at last he moved swiftly past Hawke. He crouched down next to the young mage, lifting the man’s head by his hair.

“Talk.”

“Please don’t kill me!” 

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know!” The mage cried out as Fenris yanked his head back farther. “It was Hadriana! She brought us here.”

“Hadriana?” Fenris spat the word as if the very syllables tasted foul in his mouth. “Where?”

“The holding caves! North of the city! I can take you there,” the mage offered desperately.

“No need. I know where they are.” With a swift, sure movement, Fenris snapped the mage’s neck. He stood up, glaring down at the bodies. “Hadriana,” he said again.

“Who is she?”

“Danarius’s apprentice. His sycophant. She’d have sold her own children to make him happy.” He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and Hawke took a step toward him. “I was a fool to think I was free,” Fenris said, almost to himself. “They’ll never let me go.”

“If Hadriana is here, is it at Danarius’s bidding?” 

He scowled at her. “Of course. Why else would she be here?”

The anger was a relief—far better than the beginnings of despair and defeat she’d heard in his voice. “Then when we kill her, it will send him a message that you are free,” Hawke said. She moved to his side, one hand reaching out toward him.

Fenris jerked his arm away before she could touch him. “We’ll need to go first thing in the morning, before she has time to prepare. Meet me at the gates at dawn. Bring Varric.” He stalked out of the courtyard without waiting for a response, leaving Hawke to alert the guards that there were bodies to be dealt with.


	13. Hadriana

“I said bring Varric,” Fenris hissed at Hawke. “Why did you bring the blood mage?”

Varric winced at the terminology, glancing at Merrill to make sure she hadn’t heard. She continued to chatter in his direction, seeming oblivious, but Varric wasn’t convinced. Merrill often pretended to be less aware than she actually was; she seemed to find it easier to deflect things than to admit they bothered her. Still, though, it wouldn’t hurt the elf to watch his vicious tongue once in a while. Merrill wasn’t responsible for whatever atrocities had put the greatsword up Fenris’s arse.

“Last I checked, I was still in charge,” Hawke responded. 

The elf glanced at her, his mouth open to say something else, but whatever he saw in Hawke’s face stopped him. Varric sympathized with Fenris—he suspected once they tracked Bartrand down, he wouldn’t be feeling any too jovial—but he found Hawke’s answer inadequate. There was no question she had a soft spot for the broody elf, and let him get away with comments she wouldn’t have accepted from anyone else.

Varric hung back as they entered the caves, watching the others. Merrill and Hawke were alert and wary, ready for battle. Fenris looked tense, almost brittle, and Varric could see his arm twitch toward his sword at every sound. Whoever this Hadriana was, one thing was very clear: She frightened Fenris in a way Varric had never seen the elf frightened before.

Inside the cave was damp and cool, and bore evidence of use both old and recent. What it wasn’t was brightly lit. Merrill withdrew a clear glass ball from her pack, affixed it to the end of her staff, and lit it with a brief word, quietly spoken.

Varric heard Hawke whisper, “Now do you see why I brought her?” and Fenris respond with an impatiently snapped “Yes, yes.”

Merrill forged ahead, her light shining brighter than that of the occasional spluttering torches they passed. Eventually they found themselves in a large chamber, lit by a number of candles.

“These haven’t burned down very far,” Hawke noted. “This room has been used recently—not more than a few hours ago, if I had to guess.”

“And look what it was used for.” Fenris’s voice was flat and harsh as he looked at the blood-splattered altar and the pile of bodies that lay next to it. “A blood ritual. See what your kind is capable of?” He turned to Merrill, his lip curling in disgust.

“My kind? I’m an elf. Just like you.”

Fenris whirled on her, hissing, “You are nothing like me! You are a blood mage, a ruthless wanton murderer who has turned away from the very people you claim to be attempting to aid.”

Merrill stepped away from him, a gleam of tears shining in her eyes, and Varric thrust himself protectively in front of her. He glared at Fenris. “Hawke, muzzle this thing, or I’ll do it for you. You’re way out of line, elf.”

“’Muzzle’?” Fenris’s eyes widened, and Varric felt for a moment the weight of the anger the elf carried—but only for a moment. Hawke, as always, stepped in between them, taking the brunt of the elf’s anger on herself. It was safest—Fenris cooled down more quickly for Hawke than for anyone else. But it was also a measure of how seriously Hawke took her leadership, and, Varric suspected, a bit of a relief for Hawke, as well. Arguing with Fenris seemed to be a good way to get her own frustrations out, and on someone who was more than strong enough to handle them. 

The two warriors stood toe to toe, arguing in tense whispers that grew in volume. “Tell them!” Hawke said urgently.

“Hawke, you cannot ask this of me. This is something … I don’t like to speak of it.”

“These are your companions. If you let them, they could be your friends.”

“I don’t think I know what that word means.” 

“Fine. Then do it because it’s the only way you’re going to get them to help you.” Hawke crossed her arms, tapping her foot.

Fenris turned toward Varric and Merrill, his shoulders hunched. “Perhaps you should be aware …” He took a deep breath and glanced at Hawke. “The ritual that created my markings … took away my memories. Everything I was, everyone I ever knew, all of it—it was taken from me. Hadriana used to taunt me about it. Mercilessly. Holding the information about my past above my head like a cat’s toy, waiting for me to leap at it. I did not comply, but—I wanted to.”

Merrill gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Fenris, I’m so sorry!”

“Keep your sorrys!” Fenris snapped, but he left off the usual biting epithet, at least.

“Let’s keep going.” Hawke used her cool all-business voice, but she smiled at Fenris, who ducked his head and turned away.

Aha, Varric thought. Progress.

Hawke pointed toward a shaft off the back of the cave, and Merrill led the way. They hadn’t gone far when a small voice came from the darkness. 

“Please help me!”

“Come out,” Hawke said. “We won’t harm you.”

A small blonde elf, looking to be in her teens, emerged from the shadow, the light shining on her tear-stained cheeks. “They killed everyone,” she whispered. “I don’t understand! We tried to be so good. She loved Papa’s soup!”

“Who? Who killed everyone?” Fenris stepped toward the girl. Despite the intensity of the questions, there was a gentleness in his attitude. At last, Varric thought, they’d stumbled across someone Fenris felt real compassion for. “And why?”

“Th-The magister.” The girl’s lip quivered, and she took an audible breath, trying to get hold of herself. “She said someone was coming to kill her, that she needed the power.”

Fenris’s head snapped back as though the girl had hit him. “Because of me,” he muttered to Hawke. “She did this to them because of me.”

“Please don’t hurt her! She’ll be so angry.” The girl wrapped her arms around herself. 

“You don’t have to worry about her anymore. I promise you that,” Fenris said. “What’s your name?”

“Orana.”

“Do you have anywhere you can go, Orana?”

“Y-you mean you won’t be my master?” Tear-filled eyes met Fenris’s.

“No!” 

“But what will I do? Oh, please! I can cook, I can clean …”

“If you saw his place, you’d wish you hadn’t said that,” Varric interjected.

“Not now, Varric,” Hawke said, although she shot a grin over her shoulder at him. She looked back at Orana. “Do you think you can get to Kirkwall?” When the girl nodded, Hawke said, “Find the Amell estate in Hightown, tell Messere Feddic that Hawke sent you. He’ll find you something to do.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” With a last glance of tear-stained gratitude, Orana took off running through the dimly lit corridors.

“I didn’t know you were in the market for a slave,” Fenris said to Hawke in a low, dangerous voice.

“I gave her a job, Fenris.” Hawke crossed her arms and stared at him, pointedly awaiting an apology.

Fenris did the next best thing. He blushed. “Oh. Well, then, uh … We should move on.”

Hawke grinned, motioning to Merrill to lead the way. 

Deep in the cave system, Merrill paused, letting her light dim. “Just ahead,” she whispered to Hawke. In the dimness, Varric could see Fenris nod his agreement. 

Striding to the front of the group, Hawke led the way.

A black-haired woman with crazed blue eyes stood in the midst of the cavern, surrounded by armed slavers. Her eyes lit up like firecrackers when she saw Fenris. “I knew you’d be fool enough to come here.”

“You are the fool, witch!” 

Hadriana raised her arms, hissing something in Tevinter, and Varric heard the telltale groaning of skeletons preparing to rise from the earth. He reached for Bianca, feeling the familiar sweet weight of her in his hands, taking pleasure in the slick movement of her works as the bolt cocked and released. It caught a skeleton square in the skull, shattering the bone, and Varric patted her fondly. “Bianca, you’re beautiful,” he cooed.

Merrill cried out in Dalish next to him, and the earth rose up, swallowing two of the skeletons it had just emitted. When the dirt receded, the skeletons lay in pieces. Hawke was occupied with a group of skeletons and slavers—her great blade flashed in the torchlight as she spun and slashed at her attackers. 

Varric turned Bianca to face the knot of slavers surrounding Hadriana, protecting the magister as she muttered spells and called forth more skeletons. Merrill chopped the air in front of her with one slender hand and a wall of ice appeared, trapping several of the slavers. Bianca took the opportunity to croon her sharp song at the immobilized men. While Hadriana’s protectors were distracted, Fenris screamed, a sound Varric had never heard him make before, and the elf rushed the magister, the ferocity of his attack causing her to stop midspell and throw up a protective barrier around herself. Fenris threw himself at the barrier, hacking at it with all his great strength.

Under the near-hysterical onslaught of Fenris’s blade, Hadriana could do nothing more than protect herself. While he kept the magister occupied, Hawke and Merrill battered slavers and skeletons with sword and magic, and Varric let Bianca speak with her elegant spiked tongues. 

The last slaver fell, Hawke pulling her blade out of his abdomen as he dropped. She turned toward Hadriana, the dripping blade raised high. In the torchlight, Varric saw fear in Hadriana’s face as she ducked another blow of Fenris’s sword, but it was a sly, cunning fear, and he wasn’t surprised to hear the shriek of shades rising from the shadows. The effort had been too much for Hadriana’s powers, and the shield protecting her dropped. 

Hawke turned to do battle with a rage demon, but Fenris pressed Hadriana, his rain of blows falling in a reckless and unfocused fashion that was completely unlike the elf, who usually fought with an almost surgical precision. Varric let Merrill and Hawke take out the demon and the shades, while he kept his eye on Fenris and Hadriana. He held Bianca back for fear of hitting the wrong target, although she clearly wanted to aid the elf.

At last one of Fenris’s wild blows hit home, knocking Hadriana back against the wall with blood running from a deep wound in her shoulder. It wasn’t fatal, Varric could see, but the fight had gone out of her. She lay twitching on the floor, gasping for breath and reaching feebly for her staff, which had fallen several feet from her.

The tension in Fenris’s body eased perceptibly as he blew his sweat-soaked bangs out of his eyes. The elf’s knuckles, which had been white from the death grip he had on his sword, resumed their natural sun-browned hue. In a slow, deliberate movement, Fenris stepped between the magister and her staff.

“Wait,” Hadriana cried, her voice cracking. “You don’t want to kill me.”

“You’re right.” Fenris raised his sword, poised to strike her head from her body. “I’d prefer to kill Danarius, but as he’s not here, I’ll settle for his pet.”

“I have information you will want,” Hadriana said. That sly look was flickering in her eyes now, and Varric held Bianca ready to sing if needed.

“You have nothing I want.” The sword shifted and began to move, only to halt awkwardly in midair when Hadriana cried out.

“You have a sister! She is living!”

The sword dropped from Fenris’s hands as though he had lost all strength. “A sister?” 

“Promise you won’t kill me, and I’ll tell you.” 

Varric’s hands tightened on Bianca’s firm body. He didn’t trust this mage, or the odd vulnerability she created in the normally stoic elf.

“You have my word,” Fenris said. His calm, dangerous voice made Varric relax somewhat. This was the elf he knew. Fenris bent over Hadriana. “Speak.”

“Her name is Varania,” Hadriana said breathlessly. “She is a servant, working for a magister.”

“Not a slave.” 

“No, not a slave.” There was a strange glint of humor in Hadriana’s eyes, nearly obscured by the fear but not entirely. “It’s the truth,” she said when Fenris didn’t respond immediately.

“I believe you.” His voice was quiet, reassuring. And then he thrust his suddenly glowing arm into Hadriana’s chest cavity. The mage gasped and fell back onto the ground as Fenris removed her heart, staring at it for a moment before squeezing the lifeblood out of it. There was no sound in the cave but the spattering of the liquid hitting the floor.

When the blood stopped running, Fenris dropped the heart into the puddle and stalked out. 

As they followed, Merrill said to Hawke in a disbelieving whisper, “H-He … He broke his word!”

“So I noticed,” Hawke answered, her voice flat and expressionless.

Merrill cast an anxious glance at the warrior, but Hawke strode ahead. Varric shrugged when Merrill caught his eye. As he saw it, a broken word was likely to be the least of Fenris’s problems after today’s events. But then, Varric had never been above a well-placed lie.

The only time Varric could remember being happier to see the sunlight and feel a fresh breeze in his face was after Bartrand had locked them in the Deep Roads. He turned his face up to the sky, glad to be out of the oppressive caves and their rank smell of blood. A retching noise disrupted his enjoyment, and he opened his eyes to see Fenris leaning his head over the side of the path, his hands braced on his knees. He couldn’t really blame the elf—relatives could have that effect on a person.

Once the paroxysm had passed, Fenris straightened up. Varric wordlessly held out a handkerchief and after staring at it for a moment, Fenris took it, wiping his mouth. He gave a brief nod for thanks and began striding up the sandy path. Hawke caught up with him, glancing at him frequently as she kept pace. At last she appeared to come to a decision.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Fenris looked at her incredulously. “No, I don’t want to talk about it!” He moved closer to Hawke, clenching his fists. “For all I know, this is a trap, and Danarius waits in the midst of it like a spider, waiting for me to track down this ‘sister’.”

Varric moved back, leaning against a large rock. Merrill perched next to him.

“I thought he said he didn’t want to talk about it,” she observed.

“He doesn’t want to, Daisy, but he needs to.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“It’s like a teakettle. You don’t let it get the steam out, it explodes. Makes a sodding big mess, too.” He nodded toward Hawke. “She’s just making sure he gets the steam out.” He sighed. “And me without any popcorn.”

“Even if it isn’t a trap,” Fenris was saying, “trying to find this … this Varania … would be suicide! Danarius has to know about her, he has to know that if I knew about her I’d want to—“ He broke off, his face hardening. “The only thing that really matters is that I finally got to crush that bitch Hadriana’s heart. May she rot, and all other mages with her.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“You know I do.”

“This isn’t you, Fenris.”

“How do you know? Maybe it is.” 

The way the two were staring at each other, it was clear there was a whole separate conversation going on underneath the words. Varric was startled to see Hawke take a step back. He’d rarely seen her back down from any argument, and never from an argument with Fenris. Then Hawke reached out a hand toward Fenris’s shoulder.

“Maybe we should—“

“Don’t comfort me!” he shouted, jerking away before she could touch him. Varric saw Hawke wince, and he stood up, thinking perhaps he should step in now. Before he could move, Fenris went on. “You saw what they did down there! There’s always some excuse, some reason why a mage has to exercise their power to everyone else’s detriment. Magic taints everything it touches!” He was practically screaming.

Hawke’s face went white at Fenris’s words. While Varric had always wanted to see the elf lose his cool, this was just not right. 

As Hawke’s lips began to tremble, the elf’s green eyes widened. An expression of infinite self-loathing crossed his face, and he backed up. “I—I need to go.” And he turned and fairly ran up the path.

Merrill got down from the rock. “Still wishing for popcorn?” she asked Varric. He could only shrug as Merrill stalked past him and put an arm around Hawke’s waist. The two women went up the path together.


	14. Broken Open

Fenris made his way back toward Kirkwall, haunted by the image of Hawke’s crumpled face. How could he have forgotten she was the daughter of a mage and said such a thing to her?

How could he have let himself get so close to someone so personally touched by magic in the first place? Everything Hawke was, everything she did, it all came from magic. Could he overlook that, overlook her championing of mages? Her mage companions: a blood mage and an abomination, and she fought for them, protected them. She asked Fenris to fight for and protect those mages. 

His hand was still red with Hadriana’s blood. Fenris clenched his fist, feeling her heart slick against his fingers all over again. He had broken his word, the only thing he truly owned—but he had needed to know what Hadriana held over him. It sickened him to think that he had been her toy once again, that she had held the information over his head and he had leaped at it like an animal. Like a pet. The thought made his stomach turn, but there was nothing left in it to retch.

Through all the confusion of his thoughts and feelings, the idea of a sister tickled against the edges of Fenris’s mind. For all that he tried not to think of her, the name Varania was like a pulsebeat underlining everything else he thought. Why had he asked? Why had he wanted to know? Varania’s brother, whoever he had been, was gone. He had given up on being anything other than Fenris, escaped slave and trained killer, long ago. What would be the point of stirring things up now?

He was close to the city now, and Fenris noticed that his steps were slowing. The thought of going into the city was too much—the noise, the people, the sights and smells. Nausea shook him again, and he turned away, toward the Wounded Coast where the clean salty air and the solitude beckoned. Leaving the path, he scaled the rocks to reach the edge of the water, wanting to get as far away as he could before Hawke and the others caught up. 

Fenris stood on the beach and hurled rocks into the water with furious energy until both arms were sore, the activity giving his mind a way to escape from the clamor, from the women’s names that kept repeating: Hadriana; Hawke; Varania. 

Groaning, he cradled his head in his hands. He wanted, more than anything, just to have it all stop for once. No thought, no memories, no taunting blackness where memories should be. No hate, no confusing jumble of fear and desire, no longing for things lost. Just … nothing. 

He sank down on a rock, staring down into a tide-pool at his feet, watching a hermit crab scuttle along in the shallow water. A shadow crossed the water, a seagull flying overhead, and the crab stopped, ducking into its shell until nothing could be seen of the occupant, the shell looking like any other abandoned seashell. As Fenris watched, the crab slowly emerged, moving across the pool again. It was a simple life, he thought. Forage for food; don’t get eaten. His life had been that way once—keep running; scrounge food where you can; don’t get caught. Until he had come to Kirkwall, and things had rapidly grown complicated. Perhaps he would have been better off had he never stopped.

“I thought I’d find you around here.”

The voice snapped him out of his reverie, and he turned around to look at the voice’s owner. Isabela stood posed on the rocks, her hair and the skirt of her tunic flapping in the breeze.

Fenris shook his head, looking back at the tide pool. The waves were coming up over the rocks and into the pool now, and the hermit crab was lost in a swirl of sand at the bottom.

“Don’t you want to know why I thought you’d be here?”

“No.”

“Then I suppose you won’t want to know why I came.”

“No.”

“She’s tearing half the city to pieces looking for you.”

“Oh?” He did his best not to sound interested. He didn’t want to be interested.

Isabela was mercifully silent for a few minutes in which Fenris absolutely refused to look at her. Then she said, “If I understand the bits and pieces correctly, it’s like this: You finally got to kill someone you’ve hated as long as you can remember. While you were at it, you found out you have a sister you didn’t know about before. And to celebrate, you screamed the worst things you could think of at the best friend you’ve ever had. Am I on the mark?”

“More or less,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Nice.” 

She was silent again. Fenris gritted his teeth, reminding himself that he absolutely did not care what Isabela thought. He didn’t want to know, and he certainly wouldn’t ask. Definitely not. Then he heard himself snap, “What? Speak your piece.”

“Oh, now you give a damn?”

“You came here for a reason. I imagine you will not leave until you have said what you came to say.”

Isabela sighed. She seemed softer here, this close to the ocean. “I’m going to tell you something. If you ever speak a word of it, you’ll have my dagger in your back before you can draw your next breath. Understood?” Fenris nodded, and she went on. “I’ve been captaining ships since you were still bowing and scraping to Danarius. Maybe since you were whatever you were before that. I figured out a long time ago that getting too close to someone has a tendency to get them hurt. Or killed.” 

Fenris winced. It was uncomfortably close to his reasoning.

Nodding, Isabela said, “You and I aren’t as different as you might like to believe. But I’ll tell you this: Much as I love the open ocean, I’d beach myself permanently if I could find someone strong enough to stand behind me and accept me for who I am. Those types are few and far enough between. The types who are strong enough to fight at your side and soft enough to admit they want you? They’re as rare as Andraste’s ashes.” The pirate’s amber eyes met Fenris’s, open and vulnerable as he’d never seen them. “If you let that go without even trying, you’re a fool.”

Part of him wanted to pour out the turmoil of thoughts that plagued him, but another part held the shell firmly closed. “What is this,” he asked instead, his voice harsh, “Aunt Isabela’s Advice to the Lovelorn? Isn’t that more Varric’s purview?”

Isabela snorted in laughter. “If Varric had found you, you’d be looking into the business end of Bianca right now. And believe me, she’s not just a pretty face.”

Fenris had to smile at that. “I have seen her in action. I wouldn’t dream of trifling with Bianca.” He turned at last to look at the pirate. “What do you want, Isabela?”

“I want you to get your head out of your arse and apologize.” As Fenris slowly nodded in agreement, she added, “But only if you mean it. Because if you go there and you apologize to her and you’re still thinking in the back of your mind that Hawke’s somehow beneath you because she’s been touched by magic, and then you hurt her again, Bianca won’t be the only woman whose wrath you have to worry about.”

“Consider me warned.”

The pirate’s eyes narrowed as she looked at him. Then she sighed and stood up. For a moment she stood there, eyes closed, breathing in the sea air. Her eyes opened again and she looked at Fenris. “Don’t screw this up.”

No, Fenris thought, he wouldn’t. It was clear what he had to do. Apologize to Hawke for insulting her, but make it absolutely clear that there could be nothing between them but business. She deserved better … and he honestly didn’t know if he could forget that she had been raised by a mage.

He made his way back to Kirkwall and skirted through the lengthening shadows of Hightown, hoping, as always, to avoid notice. Particularly, in this case, he wanted to avoid being seen by anyone he knew—it was going to be hard enough to tell Hawke what he needed to tell her without having to fight with an angry dwarf on the way. With that in mind, he circled around to the back of Hawke’s estate and scaled the garden wall. He dropped into an empty annuals bed. This late in the season, the garden was relatively sparse, although it still smelled good. Come to think of it, Hawke had smelled the same way when he had almost kissed her last night—a sharp, sweet scent of herbs and flowers. He felt heat flare in the pit of his stomach at the memory, and a stab of regret that now he would never know what it was like to feel her soft mouth under his. 

Shivering in the cool breeze that blew through the garden, Fenris cursed Kirkwall’s chilly southern winters. He sank down onto the garden bench, trying to work up the nerve to go inside.

Fenris wasn’t sure how long he’d been out there when the door opened. She didn’t see him at first, as she pulled the door closed after her, and he stared at her open-mouthed. He’d never seen Hawke look quite so beautiful—from the soft dark hair that fell loose over her shoulders to the shapely legs revealed by her short skirt and accentuated by her tall boots. How could he have thought it was chilly? Looking at her now, he felt positively aflame.

And then she saw him. “Fenris?” Her brow furrowed, but she didn’t move toward him. They stared at each other across the wintry garden.

He stood up from the bench, moving closer but still leaving some distance between them. Truth be told, he was afraid of what he might do if he came within arm’s reach of her. She made it hard to think of anything but the way her lips had parted as he leaned in to kiss her the night before. With an effort, he gathered his thoughts. “I … came to apologize. For what I said earlier. I was … not myself. I’m sorry.” The words sounded dismissive and inadequate even to him.

Hawke opened her mouth once or twice to say something, then thought better of it. At last, words came spilling out. “I didn’t know where you’d gone. I was … concerned.”

This was the Hawke he had no defense against—the utterly forthright woman who expected nothing less in return. And, as always, he found himself responding before he had time to consider what he was saying. “I needed to be alone. I … Hadriana was a torment to me, you understand. She withheld my meals, hounded my sleep—anything she could think of, because she knew I was powerless against her. To have her there, at my feet, and then to let her go?” He shook his head, feeling triumphant at the memory of Hadriana’s heart in his hands and yet ashamed that he had given way so cravenly to the need to know what she knew. “I wanted to, I did, but I … I couldn’t.”

“You wanted to?” Her blue eyes were soft and serious on his.

Try as he might, he couldn’t lie to her. He couldn’t even avoid her questions. When she looked at him like that, the only thing he could do was speak, things he hardly understood himself spilling from him. “This … hate,” he began, fumbling for the words. “I thought I had gotten away from it. I thought I could learn, at last, to feel … other things. And then to see her? To feel that hate again and to know that it was they—she—who had planted it inside me again?”

“You gave her your word.”

The banked anger that simmered beneath the surface flared again. “You think it’s easy to have to admit that you aren’t as noble as you thought you were? I needed what she had to give … but I was not strong enough to walk away, to leave her alive to hunt me again.”

“I would have killed her for you.”

“I do not need you to fight my battles for me! Whatever you’re playing at, it’s a mistake. Just … leave me alone!” He turned from her, needing to escape from the whirlpool of emotion he seemed caught in.

“Stop running away from me!” 

Her voice stopped him in his tracks, pushing him over the edge of control. With a wordless growl he pivoted, catching her by the upper arms and shoving her against the wall. He heard a thunk as her head hit the stucco, not cushioned by her usual bun, and he didn’t care. Anger and lust and frustrated longing burned in him and he pressed against her, his mouth smashing hard against hers. Part of him expected her to struggle—she had too much pride to allow herself to be treated this way—and he was shocked when her mouth opened beneath his, warm and inviting, and her fingers gripped his hips, pulling him more firmly against her. Enflamed by her eagerness, he kissed her with a hunger he had never even imagined, grinding against the heat between her legs, rational thought nowhere to be found. His hands left the wall, moving down her side to grasp the hem of her skirt, and her mouth broke away from his. Hawke’s tongue traced his jawline and down the column of his throat, across the lines of lyrium there. Fenris was electrified, the lyrium leaping to life, the deadly hum of it buzzing across his skin.

The sensation was like cold water on his head. Venhedis! What was he thinking? He practically leaped across the garden, thankful for the chill air as he fought to regain control. When he thought he could speak, he said shakily, “I’m sorry.”

“No need.” Hawke looked shaken, as well. Also beyond beautiful, with her hair tousled and her eyes hazy and her lips reddened from his—his—kisses. “Did you—isn’t that what you wanted?”

He fought to control his voice, which came out cracked and hoarse. “Not like that. Not with their anger still inside me. Even if this was a good idea … not that way.”

“’Even if’?” Her voice was soft, but the hurt in it carried clearly in the night air.

Fenris clutched the back of the garden bench, his knuckles white. “Why do you want this?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I am an elf. And an escaped slave.”

“You said that before. It didn’t matter to me then, it doesn’t matter to me now.” When he didn’t answer, she went on. “Fenris, you say those things like that’s all you are, but that isn’t what I see when I look at you. I see someone who I can count on to be at my side; someone who supports me in public, whether you agree with me or not, but is strong enough to challenge me in private, to make me think about my decisions. I see someone who has never lied to me, even when you’ve wanted to.”

Fenris stared at her, open-mouthed, feeling the shell beginning to crack. With a desperate effort, he tried to hold the edges together. “How can you say that? I put you in danger, I shout at you over things for which you aren’t to blame, I insulted your family …”

“Put me in danger?”

“Those slavers would have captured you as well as me—you’d have been enslaved!” He remembered the spike of pure fear he had felt, hearing the slavers shout “Let’s take the pretty one, too!”, and he shuddered. 

“We fight together, Fenris. It’s what we do. I’ve put you in danger a time or two, as well.”

Her blitheness in the face of the truth angered him. “Don’t you understand, Hawke? If I lost control, I could kill you!”

“You wouldn’t.”

“How can you be so sure?” How could she be sure, when he wasn’t? 

“Because I trust you.”

And that did it. He stood before her, broken open, everything that he was bare and vulnerable to her. He knew the inevitable had come—he had to tell her what he was truly capable of, what he had done. With bitter humor he realized that the timing couldn’t possibly be better. “Very well,” he said. “Come to the mansion three nights from now. There is … something I have to tell you.” 

“Three nights?”

“Yes. It’s a … special occasion. Of sorts.”

With that he left, scaling the wall and disappearing into the darkness.


	15. Escape

“Evelyn!”

“Yes, Mother?” She halted in the doorway, but didn’t turn. This conversation was only going one place, and Evelyn really didn’t want to go with it.

“What are you doing on Thursday?” 

“Busy. Why?” She wasn’t, but her mother didn’t need to know that.

“I’m trying to schedule a dinner for you and the Dumar boy, but he’s terribly hard to book, as you might imagine. Can’t you change your plans?”

“Saemus Dumar?! Please tell me you aren’t considering him as a potential husband candidate?” Her mother’s guilty look confirmed her suspicions, and Hawke groaned. “Mother, Saemus Dumar is nineteen.”

Leandra blinked at her daughter innocently. “Is that a problem?”

“I’d eat that sweet boy for breakfast,” Evelyn snapped. “Assuming his father would let me get within ten paces of him. I’m hired muscle, and the Viscount knows it. Good enough to save his son, but definitely not good enough to date him.”

“You could change that. We could dress you up and—“

“No.” 

“There is someone, isn’t there? I’m sure he’s entirely unsuitable.”

It crossed Evelyn’s mind to mention Fenris, but what was there to say? A strange attraction she had finally decided to do something about, one passionate embrace in the garden? If anything, her mother would use that as an extra reason to get Evelyn married off. “Wake up, Mother!” she snapped. “I’m no noble! You can put me in this big fancy house, but I’m still just a fighter. No idealistic dreamer like Saemus Dumar could ever understand me, and I’d make him miserable.”

Tears flooded her mother’s eyes. “I just want to see you settled,” she sniffed. “To hold a grandchild on my lap.”

Grandchild? There was no way Hawke was having children in Kirkwall. In her mind, marriage and children were somewhere far down the road, in another place, somewhere that she didn’t have to be a blade and could be … some vague other thing she’d never really thought about.

“Mother, there’s plenty of time for grandchildren. You’re still a young woman …” Eureka! Evelyn thought. She smiled at her mother. “You’re also far more acceptable in society than I am. Why don’t you stop worrying about me and look for companionship yourself?”

“Me? Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Leandra protested.

“You could! Father wouldn’t want you to live alone, you know that. He’d want you to be happy!”

Her mother’s eyes softened. “I suppose you may have a point. But wouldn’t it look foolish, a woman my age …?” 

“Not at all! Besides, you’re an Amell! Your family used to be trend-setters. You can be one again, by proving that a woman can still be attractive and, um, desirable, even if she has grown children.” Evelyn thought she might be laying it on a bit thick, but her mother was nodding thoughtfully.  
“I’ll have to think about that. Thank you, dear.” She patted Evelyn’s arm. “Perhaps we can get you settled later. When things in Kirkwall calm down a little.”

Evelyn breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe that was all it would take to get her mother off her back. After all, ‘things in Kirkwall’ didn’t look likely to calm down any time soon!

In the meantime, she had her … whatever it was with Fenris later tonight, the day stretching interminably until it was time to go to his mansion. She decided to head for the Hanged Man to see who was available and find something to do with the day. It was a rainy day, and cool, the weather refreshing after Kirkwall’s long summer.

In the Hanged Man, she found Sebastian, of all people, kicking back at the table with Varric. “Hawke!” the dwarf called. “Come over and grab a seat. Not fit for man nor beast out there.”

“Well, then it’s good that we’re a woman and a dwarf, isn’t it?” Hawke raised her eyebrows at him.

“Aw, really?” Varric groaned. “Hawke, take a break once in a while.”

“Time to get moving, Tethras. Excitement and adventure and really wild things await.”

Varric shook his head. “You never mean that in the right way.” He got to his feet with a dramatic sigh. “Come on, Sebastian. Might as well get your feet wet. So to speak.”

“Ouch. Is this what passes for humor, then, in this crowd?”

“Choirboy’s insulting my jokes, Hawke.”

She let the dwarf and the once-prince precede her out the door. “Varric, even Bianca insults your jokes. Your stories, now … those are works of art.”

“It’s a gift,” Varric agreed, mollified. “You never said what we’re doing today.”

“I think we’ll go to Darktown and see if we can convince the Coterie to tell us what happened to Javaris Tintop.” Hawke frowned. “Every time I see a Qunari, I get the feeling they’re watching to see how long it takes us to find that stolen gas formula.”

“It’s a wonder no one’s used it by now. Of course, knowing Javaris, if he had it, he probably sold it already, at a three hundred percent mark-up.”

“That isn’t a comforting thought,” Hawke said.

Sebastian trailed along behind them, his eyes moving from one to the other, but he kept his own counsel. A man who listened before speaking, Hawke thought. They needed more of those. 

They passed through the Lowtown market on their way. Hawke idly scanned the stalls for anything interesting.

“Hawke, look there.” 

She followed Varric’s pointing finger to an empty stall. “Is that Vincento’s shop?”

Varric nodded. “No one’s seen him in weeks.”

“That’s not unusual. Doesn’t Vincento usually spend most of the winter in Antiva?”

“Yeah, but last time I saw him he still had half his stock. I’ve never seen that guy leave town until he’d price-gouged someone for his last rusty spoon."

Hawke frowned down at the dwarf. “Not to sound insensitive, Varric, but is it really our job to go hunting a missing merchant?”

“Surely if there’s been foul play done, that’s everyone’s concern, isn’t it?” Sebastian put in.

“That’s cute, Choirboy. Seriously, Hawke,” Varric said, “normally I wouldn’t have noticed, but the blighter owes me a free haircut and shave. Won it in a game of Wicked Grace.”

“You’d let someone like Vincento near your hair?” Hawke asked.

Sebastian said, “I wouldn’t have guessed that you shave, Varric.”

“This precise length of stubble isn’t easy to maintain,” Varric said. “And, for free? I’d have considered it.”

Hawke looked at the empty stall thoughtfully. “Let’s come back and ask around when it isn’t raining—more merchants are likely to be out, and they’ll all be in a better mood.”

The three of them continued into Darktown, where they found the Coterie representative who had taken over Javaris’s patch. She gave them the usual runaround—the Coterie wasn’t known for being informative—but then Anders loomed out of the darkness and joined the conversation. His healing skills were well-known in Darktown by this point, and he’d done the Coterie a few favors. He gave the Coterie rep the kind of smile that was more and more rare on his face these days, and the combination of charm and obligation soon had her pointing them in the direction Javaris had taken when he fled the city. Hawke had her doubts the dwarf would still be around, as he wasn’t really the hiding in caves type, but it was the best lead they had.

The mage joined them as they made their way through one of Darktown’s endless tunnels, coming out on a deserted stretch of the Wounded Coast. They climbed through clumps of weeds and over mossy rocks to get to the caves the Coterie rep had mentioned. Varric lagged behind the three humans, cursing about scratches on Bianca and weeds sticking to his fancy coat. The once-fastidious Anders didn’t seem to care, even when a branch snagged a handful of feathers out of one of his pauldrons. It worried Hawke how drawn and humorless the mage had become. The last thing any of them needed was to have funny, dedicated Anders completely subsumed into Justice, or Vengeance, or whatever militancy the spirit was embodying these days.

No sooner had her head come even with the floor of the cave than an arrow whistled out the entrance, missing the top of her head by only a few inches.

“Someone’s home, anyway,” she muttered to the others. Then, louder, “Javaris! Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“Friends like you, who needs darkspawn?” Javaris called back. “Stand down, men. Hopefully you can kill her later.”

Hawke pulled herself the rest of the way into the cave, her companions climbing up behind her. “Someone’s been a bad boy, Javaris.”

“She would send you,” Javaris grumbled. “I couldn’t buy a sodding break.”

“She?”

“Yeah, the elf.” Javaris and Hawke looked at each other for a moment, equally mystified. Then he groaned. “If the elf didn’t send you, that must mean you’re scouting for the Qunari.” He broke into a string of curses.

Sebastian’s eyebrows lifted almost to his receding hairline. “You do keep colorful company, Hawke. Varric, can you do that?”

“Please,” Varric said, affronted. “Profanity is the recourse of the small mind.”

“You curse worse than Isabela,” Anders argued.

Varric shrugged. “Sometimes you need a colorful metaphor to get the point across.”

Hawke cleared her throat, hoping to halt both Javaris’s increasingly lurid monologue and the yammering of the peanut gallery behind her. When that didn’t work, she shouted, “Javaris!”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. It’s just … that elf. If I ever get my hands on her …” He looked about to launch into another diatribe.

“What elf?” Varric asked.

Javaris gave a harassed sigh. “I’m minding business, selling stuff. Same old. Elf shows up. Crazy eyes.” He shivered. “Says the Qunari think I stole some kind of formula, they’re out to get me, she’s gonna take me in. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out she set me up.”

“Good thing, too,” Anders muttered. Javaris glared up at the mage.

“So you’re saying this … crazy elf stole the formula and blamed it on you,” Hawke said. “And I should believe you why?”

“Come on! You think if I stole from the Qunari, I’d be hiding out here in a cave?”

“Seems logical,” Sebastian said. “It’s what I’d do if I stole from the Qunari. That, or leave the country very quickly.”

Hawke shook her head. “Javaris and logic don’t always go together.”

“Hey!”

“Why did the elf frame you?”

“How should I know? Maybe she was jealous.”

“Of your incredible good looks?” Anders asked.

“Could happen. Look, Hawke,” Javaris said. “All I know is, elf tried to capture me, I ran. Hired myself some bodyguards—“

“You should’ve paid them more,” Varric observed, looking at the men clustered at the back of the cave.

“What can I say, they seemed like a bargain. Anyway, I came out here to hide from the elf. And the Qunari. I had some men tail her—she’s in Lowtown. Good enough to get you out of my hair?”

Hawke looked down at the frowning dwarf. “Javaris, I devoutly hope I never see you again,” she said. “Thedas might be big enough for both of us, but Kirkwall isn’t. Get my drift?”

“Yeah, I get you. Day I met you was the worst day of my life.”

“Always glad to make an impression.” Hawke led the rest of her team back out of the cave. Once they were on the path again, she turned to Varric. “Do you think you can find out who this elf is and where she’s hiding?”

“If I can’t, I’ll get the Rivaini to go hunting. There’s not much that goes on in Lowtown that she doesn’t know about.”

“Good. I’ll check in with you in the morning, then.”

“Not coming to the Hanged Man, then?” Varric looked at her curiously.

“Put the pen away, Varric, there’s no story.” Hawke was glad she wasn’t prone to blushing.

“I bet there isn’t,” the dwarf muttered, his eyes twinkling. “Come on, Blondie,” he said to Anders. “Let’s see if the Choirboy’s any good at Wicked Grace.” 

Hawke returned home for a bath and a change of clothes. She wasn’t letting Fenris get away without a fight. In this case her armor involved a low-cut blouse and a pair of very tight pants. As dusk fell, she made her way across Hightown to Fenris’s mansion, stepping carefully around the ever-increasing amounts of debris that littered his entry and stairs.

Fenris stood up when she came in, his eyes moving over her body with a hot intensity that took her breath away. He swallowed, tearing his gaze from her with obvious difficulty. “Thank you for coming,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Wouldn’t have missed it.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.” He picked up a bottle of wine, deftly uncorking it. “It’s the last bottle of the Agreggio; I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.” Lifting the bottle, he took a deep swallow, and then he handed it to Hawke.

“What is the occasion? You were rather cryptic the other night.” She tilted the bottle. The wine was cool on her tongue but heated her blood, and she decided she’d better not have any more. Wine always went straight to her head, and she wanted to have her wits about her. Hawke handed the bottle back to Fenris.

“It’s the anniversary of my escape.” He resumed his seat, motioning to the other chair. “Care to hear the story?”

“I thought you avoided talking about this.”

“I do. This is a one-time only offer.” 

“In that case, I would very much like to hear it.” She settled back, her eyes intent on his face.

Fenris took a fortifying gulp of the wine before beginning. “It was on Seheron. Danarius and I were there during an unexpected Qunari attack. In the chaos, it was as much as I could do to get Danarius to a ship, and there was no room on the vessel for a slave.”

“I can’t believe Danarius would leave without you.”

Fenris chuckled. “Oh, he didn’t want to. But as much as he valued me, he valued his own skin more. You should have seen the look on his face as the ship pulled away without me on it. Priceless.”

“So is that it? He left you in Seheron?” Fenris just looked at her, and Hawke shook her head. “Of course it isn’t. He came back for you, didn’t he?”

“You’re getting ahead of the story.” Fenris took a deep breath and a long swallow of wine. “In the jungles of Seheron, there are rebels called Fog Warriors. I had been wounded fleeing from the attack, and a band of these Fog Warriors found me. They took me in, nursed me back to health. I … would have been perfectly content to stay with them.” He looked into the fireplace, watching the flames. “They were beyond my experience—answered to no master, fought for their freedom. I grew fond of them. But then Danarius found me.” He took another drink.

Hawke leaned forward in the chair. She wanted Fenris to be the hero of his own story, but clearly it wasn’t that simple.

“When Danarius came …” Fenris shuddered. “They would have fought for me. They refused to let him take me. So he—“ He stared into the fire, his face contorted.

“Go on, Fenris. Finish it,” Hawke said gently.

“He ordered me to kill them. And I did. I—killed them all.” His voice was thick with emotion. His head bowed, his shoulders slumping forward, every line of his body expressing his shame over the memory.  
Hawke drew her breath in sharply. No wonder he kept to himself so much. Her heart ached for him and for the burden of guilt he carried. “Why?”

Fenris shook his head. “Because he told me to. Because it felt inevitable. Because the fantasy of freedom couldn’t stand against his real presence. But once it was … done, when I stood over their bodies … I felt—I couldn’t …” His voice broke, and he put a hand over his face. “They fought for me,” he whispered. “In their company—for the first time I felt that I truly lived. I was in awe of them, and I owed them … everything. And I turned on them even so. Because he told me to.” His eyes met hers, glittering with unshed tears. 

“Did you consider finding other Fog Warriors, fighting for their cause?”

He rubbed a hand over his face, collecting himself. “I couldn’t. I felt unworthy, after what I had done. I knew only that I had to escape Danarius—if that was even possible. I stowed away on a ship for the mainland and moved south, chased by Danarius every step of the way. Until I came to Kirkwall.”

“How did you get away?”

“The Fog Warriors had wounded him. The soldiers he had brought attempted to capture me, but they were … unequal to the task.” His fist clenched in memory. “Those injuries are the only reason I was able to escape—he couldn’t pursue me immediately, and I was able to put distance between us. The Fog Warriors had given me the ultimate gift, and I—I gave them the ultimate betrayal.” He tipped up the bottle and drank deeply.

Hawke watched him for a moment. She wanted to hold him, to comfort him, but instinctively she knew he wouldn’t accept it. She was afraid of the feelings coursing through her—what had started as a pursuit of lust, plain and simple, had turned into something else, something she’d never experienced before, something she wasn’t sure she was ready for. But the fierce protectiveness she felt at the sight of Fenris’s pain was stronger than the quiver of fear jumping in her stomach. “This can’t be easy to talk about,” she said at last.

“I have never spoken of it before.” He looked at her. “I wouldn’t have spoken of it now, but you said— You said … You deserve to know what I did to the last people who trusted me.”

She caught her breath, only now understanding what he was trying to say. “You think if Danarius came back and ordered you to kill me—“

His upraised hand stopped her, his face twisting. “I cannot be certain what I might do.” The words came slowly, as if he was forcing each one out. 

“Do you think he could … control you, somehow?” That would certainly explain his near-obsessive hatred of blood magic and those who practiced it.

“I don't know.” He ground out each word, fighting for control.

Without thinking, she pushed herself off the chair, kneeling in front of him. She put her hands on his knees.

He flinched at her touch, but didn’t pull away.

Hawke looked up into his eyes. “You have to forgive yourself for what happened to the Fog Warriors; no one can do that for you. And I can’t promise you that you wouldn’t listen to Danarius again. You have to come to that determination on your own. But, Fenris, I won’t turn away from you because of something you did that you so clearly regret, or because of something you fear you might do.” 

His green eyes studied hers, and she thought she could see the dawning of hope somewhere in them.

“You brought me here because you thought if I knew the worst there was to know, I would feel differently.”

He nodded.

Hawke shook her head, holding his eyes with hers. “I’m still here, Fenris.”

His hands moved to cup her face, lifting her jaw with his fingertips, his thumbs brushing across her cheeks. And then his lips were on hers, the touch achingly soft and tentative, and Hawke felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes. This tenderness was the last thing she had expected of him, and she felt the brush of fear again—was she ready for this? Instinctively, she pressed against her body against him, her tongue seeking entrance into his mouth, trying to bring the kiss back to the level where she was comfortable.

Fenris pulled away, his hands still holding her face. “Wait, Hawke. There is something else I should tell you.” He took a deep breath. “I … have never been … close … with anyone.”

Her eyes widened. This she hadn’t expected. 

“The markings,” he said. “The pain was extraordinary, and the memory of it lingers. The idea of being … touched …” He winced. “But you—you are unlike any woman I have ever met. With you, perhaps it would be different.”

“You’re saying … what I think you’re saying?”

“If there was anyone before the markings, I have no memory of it. And since …” His thumbs moved softly over her cheeks again. “I have never needed anyone, or … wanted anyone.” His green eyes darkened with a look that sent warmth cascading through her body. “Until now.”

Wordlessly she reached up, her mouth meeting his. Fenris’s fingers held her face with an incredible gentleness, and she shivered at the delicate touch of his tongue as he traced the curve of her lower lip. 

“Hawke,” he whispered. Then, pronouncing each unfamiliar syllable with care, “Evelyn.”

_Evelyn_. He’d never used her name before—none of them used her name. In truth, she liked it that way. As long as she was always Hawke, she could pretend this was just a stop on the way to her real life, that being a mercenary wasn’t her life choice, that ahead of her lay some kind of normal life somewhere. But now, here she was, in a dilapidated mansion in Kirkwall hearing an escaped slave murmur her real name in a deep voice that was so familiar she heard it in her dreams, and she could no longer pretend that Hawke and Evelyn weren’t the same person. This … whatever it was that they were doing—this was real to him, and somehow it had become real to her, without her being aware of it.

Panic flooded the pit of her stomach. She needed to run from this room, but she couldn’t move too fast or she’d damage him forever. Slowly she drew away from him. “I—It’s an early morning tomorrow.”

“You have to go.” His eyes, usually so open to her, were inscrutable.

“I—do. Yes. But I’ll see you … tomorrow?”

He nodded.

And she left the room, fleeing the mansion and the man who lived in it.


	16. Substance

It was entirely too cold to be out hunting insane elves with potentially deadly Qunari gas formulas, Hawke thought. Next time she had a choice, she thought maybe she’d be an accountant, or some other job where she could stay inside and keep warm. “Isabela, where did you say this elf was holed up?” 

“It should be around here somewhere. My informant was hard to understand—he had his mouth full at the time.” Isabela glanced sideways at Hawke and smirked.

“Time for another visit to Anders’s clinic, Rivaini?” Varric asked.

“I’ll have you know, that was only the once!”

“What does Isabela’s informant overeating have to do with Isabela needing healing?” Merrill asked. “Did I miss something?”

“Nothing important, Kitten,” Isabela said, putting an arm around the mage’s shoulders. 

Hawke and Varric exchanged an amused glance. 

They heard a commotion in an alley ahead of them, and Hawke lengthened her stride. People poured from the alley, coughing and wheezing, and sounds of shouting and the clang of weaponry came from inside the little warren of narrow alleys that opened on the larger one. Hawke recognized Guardsman Maecon, a generally unflappable type, and one on whom Aveline relied heavily. He looked pretty flapped right now, his eyes wide and his uniform in disarray.

“Guardsman!” Hawke said sharply.

He looked at her blankly for a moment, then his eyes cleared. “Serah Hawke! This is a nightmare. Something about the air in that alley— That damned air! People are going crazy in there.”

“Get hold of yourself.” She looked at Varric. “Thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Javaris Tintop telling the truth? Will wonders never cease.”

“Exactly. Let’s go.” Hawke moved to pass the guardsman, and he put up his hands to stop her.

“You can’t go in there! This is my responsibility. If I lose anyone else— The Captain will have my hide if anything happens to you!”

“Stand down, soldier. This is my fight.” Hawke patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. She wasn’t nearly as confident as she pretended to be, however. The Arishok had made it clear how dangerous this gas was, that it would send those who breathed it into a homicidal frenzy before it killed them. She cursed the Arishok under her breath, using some of Isabela’s favorite phrases.

“That’s right, sweet thing,” Isabela said, laughing. “You’re learning. I’ll have you sounding like the brawniest sailor on the seas before you know it.”

“Um … great?” Hawke turned to her crew. “Try not to breathe.”

“Riiight,” Varric said. 

A green miasma hung over the alley, and people were screaming within the choking fog. Hawke tripped over a piece of metal in the road, and bent to pick it up. The air was clearer near the ground, and she motioned for the others to stay as low as they could. The piece of metal looked like some kind of latch. She shoved it into her belt as they moved farther into the winding maze of alleys.

“Hawke!” 

She turned to look at Varric, who pointed at a barrel that was emitting clouds of the green poison. 

“Can you close that?” he asked.

Hawke plucked the latch out of her belt. “Help me!” she said to Isabela. Together they wrestled the lid back on the barrel, and Hawke latched it. The fog began to dissipate immediately, but they could see it hanging in the air farther ahead. “Too much to hope there would only be one barrel,” Hawke said with a sigh. “How are we all doing? Anyone feeling especially homicidal?”

“Only if you mention Bartrand,” Varric said, chuckling.

“Or Castillon,” Isabela added. 

All three of them looked at Merrill, whose eyes widened with curiosity. “What? Would you like me to want to kill someone?”

“No, Daisy, you stay just the way you are,” Varric said.

“Let’s keep moving,” Hawke said. “And keep your eyes open for more latches. Who knows how many of these barrels are scattered around.” As she spoke, a shrill scream sounded from the alley and a woman rushed out of the fog brandishing a meat cleaver above her head. With a ratchet and click, Bianca sent a bolt through the woman’s shoulder and she staggered back, falling to the ground. Hawke bent over her. “Good shot, Varric. She’ll live, but she’s likely to be out of our hair for a while.” She didn’t bother to look to Merrill to heal the woman—the elf’s complete lack of healing skill had been demonstrated once or twice with extremely unpleasant results for the person on the receiving end. 

They went on into the fog, trying not to breathe and failing. A team of mercenaries loomed out of the cloud of gas and there was a brief, sharp combat before the crazed men fell, one of them dropping another latch at Hawke’s feet. “Look for a barrel,” she shouted.

“Look for it yourself!” Merrill snapped. Her eyes widened. “Oh, Hawke, I’m sorry!”

“Must be the gas.” Hawke considered sending Merrill back, but lost the thought when Varric called out that he had found a barrel. They locked it closed, taking a moment to breathe the clearing air, then went on into the choking clouds of poison. 

Isabela tripped over a body and viciously stabbed it with her dagger. “That’s for scuffing my boots, sodding layabout!”

“Isabela!” Hawke said sharply. “Go back.”

The pirate tensed, her dagger raised, her eyes clouded with crazed anger. Varric swung Bianca so that her nose was pressed into Isabela’s copious bosom. “Do what Hawke said.”

“Watch it, Bianca. I’m not that easy,” Isabela said automatically, but her eyes cleared, and she turned around, going back the way they had come. 

“Isabela! See if you can get that injured woman to safety,” Hawke called after her.

“Anything for you, sweet thing,” Isabela shouted over her shoulder.

“How you doing, Varric?” Hawke asked.

“Pretty clear down here, Hawke. Everybody should be a dwarf.”

Hawke kept her usual witty response to herself, focusing on trying to see where she was going and not breathing any more than she had to. Another onrush of mercenaries hurtled out of the miasma, their attacks uncoordinated and frenzied, but vicious. Hawke had all she could do to avoid their blades, and she knew it had to be hard on Merrill, who had to breathe in order to call out spells. Hawke was removing her sword from the chest cavity of a mercenary when she heard Varric call out, “Merrill, NO!” Turning to look at him probably saved Hawke’s life, as Merrill’s lightning bolt crackled over the warrior’s shoulder to take a chunk of stucco out of a wall.

Varric looked stricken.

“Let’s get her out of here before she kills us,” Hawke said, leaping out of the way of a massive chunk of earth hurtling her way. “Cover me.”

But Bianca’s familiar ratchet-and-click didn’t come, Varric unable to pull the trigger against Merrill. The fog helped, masking Hawke’s movements as she neared the mage. With a sharp movement that had possibly more power behind it than necessary, Hawke connected the pommel of her sword with the mage’s head. Merrill dropped without a sound.

“She’ll be fine, Varric,” Hawke snapped impatiently at the dwarf, who was staring in horrified concern at the elf. “Help me with this.” She picked up another latch that was lying near Merrill, and together she and Varric wrestled the lid back on and latched it closed. “I need a moment,” Hawke said, panting, as she leaned over the barrel. Her vision swam and she felt a tremendous rage boiling up from inside herself. Rage at her father, at Bethany, at her mother, at Fenris, at herself. 

“Hawke?”

The dwarf’s voice snapped the last of her control and she whirled on him, her eyes blazing, watching him fall back, awed by the sheer power of the anger coursing through her. Hawke had never felt so invincible.

“Serah Hawke! You here?” A voice came from the fog behind her, an elf coming toward her with a sword held at the ready. The elf laughed shrilly. “Well, this couldn’t be better. The great Hawke caught in my trap. Look at all this chaos!”

“You … did this?” With an effort, Hawke recalled herself to the task at hand. The gas, the Arishok. “You murderer!” She hurled herself at the elf, who stepped aside to avoid the inelegant rush. Other mercenaries were emerging from the cloud of gas. 

“The Qunari are the murderers, with their poisonous Qun! They steal my people from the true way and turn them into nothing: neither elf nor Qunari. But now! Now that people have died they will have to listen. The Viscount himself will march against the Qunari!”

“You’re starting a war, you mad bat!” Varric shouted. 

“I am deliverance!” the elf screamed, launching herself at Hawke. 

Hawke caught the elf by the hair, swinging her around in an arc, trying to keep the elf’s flailing sword from connecting. Dimly Hawke was aware of Bianca’s cries behind her, of Varric backing further and further away, of the dwarf nearly overrun by the mercenaries, but the bloodlust owned her, the rush heady and all-consuming as she met the elf blow for blow, the pain itself nearly a pleasure.

And then, bracing as a breath of fresh air, came a deep voice shouting “ _Venhedis!_ ” and the blurred rush of Fenris’s charge, the glow of the lyrium coming to life, the flash of his blade as he closed with the mercenaries. 

Awareness flooded Hawke’s brain. She remembered her stance, waiting for the maddened elf’s blow and blocking it. Hawke swung the heavy greatsword under the elf’s, sliding it neatly through the flimsy leather armor. The other mercenaries were down, as well, taken out by Fenris’s great blade.

Varric scrambled across the cobblestones for the last latch. “Elf, help me,” he said, and Fenris moved to help wrestle the last barrel closed.

As the air cleared, the last of the gas dissipating, Hawke slid to the ground, breathing heavily, leaning her head against the wall of a building. 

“Hawke, you in there?” Varric asked.

“Yes,” she said at last. “You all right, my friend?”

“Next time a woman looks at me the way you did, I hope I’ll have done something to deserve it,” he said, but his grin was a bit shaky. “I’m going to go check on Daisy.”

Fenris hunkered down next to Hawke. “Why didn’t you come get me?”

She rolled her head back and forth against the cool stones of the wall. “No time. The gas was already spreading. How did you get here, anyway?”

“I happened to be passing—I was at Mistress Blodgett’s.”

“Oh. How were the pies?”

“They looked better, actually. But she wouldn’t serve me.”

“That’s strange.”

“So I thought.” There was a pause. They hadn’t spoken about two nights ago at his mansion, or how she had run from him. Hawke felt a flutter in her stomach at the thought, but whether it was desire, or fear, or that unknown tender, yearning feeling she had experienced when he kissed her, she didn’t know, and was too tired to consider. “Have you recovered?”

“I think so.” She shifted, preparing to stand, and Fenris reached out a hand to help her. She met his eyes, wondering exactly what she was agreeing to by accepting the assistance, and then grasped his hand, letting him help her up. For a moment they stood facing each other. Hawke could practically taste his remembered kiss. What would he do if she kissed him right now? What would she do? Where would it lead? The questions swarmed in her brain, and she wondered what she’d been thinking, letting it get this far without asking herself any of them.

“Hawke—“ he began, stepping toward her, but she heard Varric’s cheerful voice shouting, “Hawke, come look at this!” and the chance was lost. 

Varric held up a bottle. “Antivan brandy, Hawke! Remember when all we got off the bodies was moonshine? Clearly you’ve inspired Kirkwall to a better class of criminals.”

“Well, I’ve done enough work today,” Hawke said. “Let’s go sample that stuff. We can talk to the Arishok in the morning.” She looked around grimly at the carnage. “I have a few words for him.”

“Lead on, my lady.” Varric bowed, handing the bottle over. He and Hawke led the way to the Hanged Man, with Merrill fluttering alongside apologizing with every step, it seemed.

Isabela and Fenris walked behind them. After a few minutes, Fenris said, “So, about this relic you’re searching for.”

“You have pretty eyes.”

“I have … pretty eyes.” 

“Yes. I’d like to pop them right out and hang them up in my room where I could see them all the time.” The pirate’s voice was rich with amusement, but there was a dagger’s edge hidden there.

“I wouldn’t advise you to try,” Fenris said.

“Oh, I would never try. Unless, of course, I had a reason …”

“I see. Forget I said anything, then.”

“I think that’s best.” Isabela chuckled. Hawke filed the exchange away for future thought. What could the relic Isabela was searching for be, that the pirate was so determined not even to speak about it?

Hawke hid the bottle as well as she could as they walked through the Hanged Man. If anyone found out they had real Antivan brandy, they wouldn’t have it for long. In Varric’s room, he dug out five reasonably clean cups, and Hawke poured a generous dollop for each of them. “To Varric, for being short! To Isabela, for knowing when to walk away. To Merrill, for missing.” Merrill blushed and stammered another apology. “To Fenris, for swooping in and saving the day.”

“I do not swoop.”

“But you did save the day.” For a moment, it was as though they were the only two people in the room.

“Can we drink already?” Varric groused. 

Hawke tore her eyes away from Fenris’s face and raised her cup. She drank, feeling the burn of the brandy, followed by a languid warmth that raced through her limbs and relaxed her muscles.

“Ahhhh,” Isabela said. “That’s good stuff.”

“It burns,” Merrill said, staring at the cup with distaste.

“Not for long, Kitten.”

Further toasting accompanied more drinks until the bottle was on its last dram. Merrill slept in Varric’s bed, knocked out by her first drink this time. 

“Varric,” Isabela drawled, propping one boot up on Varric’s table, “why don’t you do something about that?”

“What?” The dwarf leaned back in his chair, tilting it and nearly falling over.

“Kittens.”

“That’s Blondie. Dwarves and cats don’t mix.”

“They could, if you tried hard enough.”

“Don’t think so. Can’t cage a cat.”

“Not unless she’s caged herself.”

“It’s not my cage, Rivaini.”

Hawke stirred herself, not entirely sure why she was sitting on the floor next to Varric’s bed, but very sure why Fenris was sitting there next to her. His shoulder leaning against hers was solid, substantial. “Do you know what they’re talking about?” she asked him.

“Are they speaking?” His green eyes were practically glowing with heat as he looked at her.

It was too much, suddenly, the warmth of the fire, the heat of him next to her, the molten core of her own body. She needed cool air to clear her thoughts. With some difficulty, Hawke leveraged herself up off the floor. “Think I’ll be going,” she said, trying to stand straight while the floor tilted underneath her.

“Hawke! You still here?” Varric squinted up at her.

“No, Varric. Go to sleep.”

“Oh. Good idea.”

Isabela grinned at the dwarf, her narrowed eyes gleaming. “My place or yours, Varric? Or Bianca’s? She and I had a bit of an intimate moment earlier. I’d like to get to know her better.” 

“Keep your hands off her, you hussy!”

Hawke shook her head. Varric and Isabela could keep up these nonsense conversations all night long, drunk or sober. She, on the other hand, had an Arishok to yell at in the morning. “G’night.”

Outside the Hanged Man, she paused, drinking in the coolness and rejoicing in the feeling of her head clearing. Wobbling slightly, she started off in the direction of Hightown, which seemed awfully far away. Suddenly there was a strong hand on her elbow, and there he was again, just when she needed him. “What are you doing?” she asked him.

“Walking you home.”

“I’m fine.”

“I am certain you are, but as I am going the same way, why not do so at your side?”

Why not indeed, Hawke thought. In her drunken state, it seemed a particularly clever question, fraught with meaning. They were going the same way. She’d been Evelyn Hawke, sword for hire, for almost six years now—it was time to admit that this was who she was. And if this was her life, who better to share it with than Fenris, who was already such an essential part of it?

“Fenris, I’m sorry,” she said abruptly. “About the other night.”

“You needn’t be. You were … generous. As always.”

“I was a coward. I panicked.”

“About what?”

“Myself. Who I am. This,” she waved in the general direction of Hightown, “has never felt like me, but it was always what I was supposed to want. Now I have it and it turns out I was already who I wanted to be. Am I making any sense?”

“I think so. Or possibly we are both inebriated.” 

“I don’t think there’s any question about that.” She moved closer to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “Fenris …”

He stiffened, his eyes holding hers steadily. “Are you certain that this is what you desire?”

“Yes. I may not be sure who I am, but I know who you are.”

She would never remember who moved first. All she knew was that she was in his arms, one of his gauntleted hands grasping the back of her neck to hold her head for his kisses—long, slow, hungry kisses that burned and warmed with far greater intoxication than any brandy could create. She ached for him to touch her, for skin on skin, mouths on skin, anything but this torture that was slowly melting her like a candle. “Damned armor,” she moaned. “Fenris, come home with me.”

“Mmm.” Still holding the back of her neck, he drew his lips across her jawline. “Not tonight.”

“Why not?” She practically whimpered the question, her fingers scrabbling for his hips to hold him against her.

“Because when I touch you, I want to brand every moment on my memory,” he breathed into her ear, and Hawke shivered against him. It was such a sweet and romantic sentiment, Hawke felt that flutter in her stomach, the one she was beginning to suspect was neither arousal nor fear but something quite different. “Antivan brandy does not aid in remembering.” He chuckled against her neck, and the feel of his breath over her skin turned the flutter into a pit of lava inside her, sweet romance swallowed in her burning need.

“Fenris?”

“Yes?”

“You’re touching me now,” she said breathlessly, and was rewarded by his wordless growl and his mouth closing over hers, both strong arms wrapping around her. It no longer mattered that they were on a street somewhere between Lowtown and Hightown—she needed to feel him against her now. Her fingers dropped to the buckles on his armor, fumbling at them. 

Fenris drew back sharply, stepping away from her. “Another evening, Hawke. I promise,” he said, his voice rough.

The lack of his body against hers made the night unbearably cold, and she wrapped her arms around herself, letting the fever in her blood cool. “I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

“Nor can I.” One hand reached out to cup her cheek, and she was struck anew by the surprising gentleness of his touch. “Good-night, Hawke.”

As he moved away into the shadows, a smile spread across Hawke’s face, and she reached up to touch the place on her cheek where his hand had lingered, a gesture she had read about before but had never understood … until now.


	17. Threat and Promise

Dawn was breaking as Hawke exited her estate the next morning. A bird chirped from a tree in the courtyard, and Hawke glared at it. “Shut up, you twit!” Her head was pounding, and she thought with longing of the days when the mercenaries only carried moonshine. Less potent, certainly, than wickedly smooth Antivan brandy, but far easier on the head the next morning.

She moved slowly through the streets of Hightown, which were mostly quiet still. Thinking of the various abrupt and noisy ways she could wake Varric up soothed her a little—it was the dwarf who had found that blighted bottle, after all. She paused in a courtyard, rubbing her aching head.

The quiet was broken by a commotion, the door to one of the estates opening. Hawke drew back instinctively, watching from the shadows as something dark was tossed out the door. A figure followed the object, kicking it, and it moaned. Hawke stepped forward. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The man doing the kicking looked up, locking eyes with Hawke. It was Jeven! Former guard captain, complete pain in the arse. “You!” he sneered. He kicked the person at his feet one more time for good measure. “When he wakes up—if he does—tell him to keep his nose out of Serah Terrien’s business, or it’ll be worse the next time.” He turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him.

Hawke rushed over to the figure on the ground, kneeling at his side and turning him enough so that she could see his face. “Trevor?” she said, recognizing the young Templar. “Can you hear me?”

He moaned again, his eyes opening a crack and then slamming closed.

She took her hand away from his side, sticky with blood. “We have to move you! I have to get you to Dark—somewhere,” she amended, not sure if he knew about Anders’s clinic. She could take him to her estate, instead; call for Anders …

“Mischief!” hissed a voice behind her, and the strange old woman scuttled toward them. She knelt next to Hawke, one clawed old hand poking at the wound in Trevor’s side. “I told you it was death to go in there,” she whispered.

“Hey!” Hawke said, trying to pry the old woman’s hand away, but she ceased her efforts when she saw the glowing light emerging from the wound. Trevor began to breathe more easily as the flesh knit itself together. They remained there, the three of them, as the old woman and Hawke searched for wounds and the old woman healed them. 

Trevor shifted restlessly on the cobblestones, beginning to come to. The old woman took Hawke’s hand in her own surprisingly strong one, putting Hawke’s finger to her lips. “Sssshhhh!” hissed the old woman urgently. “Not allowed.” She stared into Hawke’s eyes with her glittering little eyes until Hawke nodded that yes, she would keep the secret. But instead of relaxing, the old woman’s gaze intensified. She leaned closer to Hawke. “They watch. He watches. He wants. Don’t allow it, please, messere!” 

“Don’t allow what?” Hawke asked, mystified, but the old woman was gone in a flash of tattered petticoats.

She turned her attention back to the prostrate Templar, whose eyes were fluttering open. “Wh-Where?” he croaked, trying to sit up. His eyes focused on Hawke’s face. “Serah Hawke? What are you doing here?”

“I happened to be passing by as you were tossed out that door like so much laundry. What happened?”

“I …” The Templar’s cheeks flushed, and Hawke could see just how young he was. “I … Serah Terrien wished to send a message.”

“He painted a vivid picture on your face, certainly,” Hawke said. “What’s it meant to say?”

“Stay away from his ward.”

“Ah.” Hawke helped the young man to his feet. “And will you?”

His eyes blazed into hers with a burning intensity. “If I could, I would … consider it. But I can’t, any more than I can stop breathing.” He looked up at the window, his face softening with longing. “I will find a way, I promise it.” 

“Be careful,” Hawke said, knowing it was wasted breath. The boy had already forgotten her existence. And could she blame him? Being beaten wouldn’t keep her from Fenris—if anything, it would make her more determined. All she could do for Trevor was hope the Maker looked out for fools like them. He certainly should, she thought. Hadn’t this whole mess gotten started because he couldn’t keep away from Andraste?  
She’d been trying to avoid any thought of Fenris, but despite her best efforts the memory of last night’s kisses lurked at the back of her mind and kept sneaking up on her, taking her breath away. She’d been kissed many a time before, but somehow this had been different in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on. More … comfortable? Familiar? No, comfortable was the last word for how she had felt, and familiar wasn’t right, either. They hadn’t kissed enough for familiarity. Although that would change, if Evelyn had her way. 

Blast it, here she was thinking about him again. Might as well go see him, if she was going to think about him. She detoured to his mansion, poking her head in the door and shouting, “You’d better be awake, because we’re going to see the Arishok.”

“I wondered when you’d be coming by.” He was disgustingly awake as he emerged onto the landing. 

“Does alcohol have no effect on you at all?” She scowled at him as he came down the stairs. He was already fully armored, as if he’d been up for hours. Come to think of it, she’d never seen him not fully armored. How far did those markings go, she wondered, her gaze traveling over his body speculatively.

“What was it Varric said to Isabela? Oh, yes—‘my eyes are up here,’” he said with that warm chuckle.

“Yes. Yes, they are.” What was she doing just looking, after all? Hadn’t they established that touching was accepted? There was no rule that said that had to be just at night. She took two steps, closing the distance between them, and pressed her mouth to his.

With a muffled groan, he put his arms around her, his hand cradling her neck as he’d done last night, and kissed her back. The kisses went on, both of them shifting and twisting restlessly against each other, hands skimming over each other’s backs. But when Evelyn’s hands reached for the buckles on his armor, Fenris stepped back.

“The Arishok,” he said breathlessly.

“You can think of the Arishok at a time like this?” Hawke stayed where she was, not pressing the issue. It didn’t take much to realize that he jumped and ran every time she touched him. If he wasn’t used to being touched because of the markings, clearly it would take some time. She could wait. Maybe. “All right, let’s go then. Twenty silvers says Tethras is still sawing logs.”

“Only if he was able to get Merrill out of his bed.”

“Merrill was in bed with Varric?” Hawke stared at Fenris in shock. “Well, good for him.”

“Ah, no. Instead of Varric, not with Varric. She passed out because of the brandy.” His mouth twisted in his little half-smile. “How much do you remember of last night, anyway?”

“Only the end,” she said, her voice husky.

“The best part,” he answered in the same tone.

“You said soon, right?” Hawke asked faintly.

Fenris nodded. “I did.”

“Good. Now let’s go.” She held the door open for him, ogling his backside as he went through.

In the Hanged Man, the smell of the day’s mystery meat stew was almost too much for Hawke’s hung-over stomach. 

“Want some?” Corff asked, holding a bowl out invitingly.

“You do that on purpose, don’t you?” Hawke tried her best not to look in the bowl. “You make that stuff first thing in the morning just to torture everyone who got drunk the night before!”

“Varric’s still upstairs.” Corff turned away, but not before she saw the confirming twinkle in his eyes. 

“Tethras!” she shouted, bursting into Varric’s room. “Out of bed, you lazybones!”

“Ouch,” mumbled a lump of blankets in Varric’s favorite chair. “Hawke, must you?”

She looked from the lump of blankets to the lump of covers in his bed and back. “Yes, and so must you.”

“The Arishok?” The covers in the bed moved, and Isabela poked her head out from under them. “Count me out. I’m, um, allergic to Qunari.”

“I’ll go!” Merrill said brightly. Her head poked out from under the covers next to Isabela’s. “Qunari aren’t exactly hard on the eyes, are they?”

Hawke and Fenris looked at the two women in the bed to Varric to each other and back. 

“I don’t believe I want to ask.”

“Me, neither.” Hawke turned to Merrill. “Fine, then. We’ll … uh … wait for you both downstairs.”

Half an hour later they were on their way to the docks to see the Qunari. 

“What do you think they’re still doing here?” Merrill asked. “I mean, they said they were waiting for a boat, but it’s been years now and there’s been no boat coming, and they don’t seem worried about it or anything, so I wonder—“

“Daisy.”

“Yes, Varric?”

“Could you, maybe, possibly, stop talking?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, until Fenris spoke up abruptly. “Qunari do nothing without purpose. If they are still here, depend upon it, they are waiting for something more than a boat.”

“Such as?”

“The Qun only knows,” he answered. “They may not know themselves what it is they wait for.”

“Well, they can wait for it without letting any more people get killed,” Hawke said with determination, remembering the people driven mad by the gas. She marched up to the Qunari at the gate to their compound. “I’ll see the Arishok. Right now.”

“You may pass. Today. Tomorrow might be different.”

She glared up at the impassive face, and made her way across the compound to where the Arishok sat, hunched over on his chair, at the top of a set of steps.

“We found your gas.”

He looked up at her, his face expressionless. “And I see you did not die. Interesting.”

“No thanks to you. Many other people did. How could you be so careless with something so dangerous?”

The Arishok studied her for a moment, then stood up, sighing heavily. “You accuse me of carelessness, but this city is awash in such things. Selfishness; want; denial. How is it allowed?”

“People are people,” Hawke said, shrugging. She crossed her arms. “If you don’t like it, no one’s keeping you here.”

“How little you know. Alone amongst these people, you seem to have skill, and yet this, too, is a result of selfishness. You use your skills to further your own goals. The Qun would direct your energies, use them for the good of all rather than self-advancement. You would be given a role that would define you.”

“I prefer to define myself, thank you,” Hawke snapped. “I don’t need to be forced into a role I didn’t choose.”

“You would have perfect freedom to choose. You could obey, and be one with the Qun, or you could … not.” His tone left no doubt as to what happened to those who didn’t choose to obey.

“That’s not freedom!”

The others were silent behind her. The Arishok hadn’t even lifted his eyes to acknowledge their presence. His eyes remained locked on Hawke. “And your freedom,” he said, “does it feed your populace, give them shelter? I have been forced to sit here and watch the fumblings your people go through in the name of freedom, unable to act. But your kind may yet force my role to change, if the Qun demands it.”

“I thought you were waiting for a ship,” Hawke said coolly, covering the sudden fear she felt. The Qunari could do a great deal of damage if they chose to attack. “Why should there be any need for you to stay here and watch us wallow in our own filth? We would gladly help you build one, if that’s all it takes.”

“No ship is coming. There is no rescue from duty to the Qun,” the Arishok growled.

“I thought you said the Qun didn’t demand you—“

He clenched his fists. “Filth stole from us! An act of greed committed by one of your own has bound me here—we are all denied Par Vollen until I find what was stolen from me.” Pain and longing was evident in his voice, and apparently the Arishok heard it, too, because he shook a fist at Hawke, controlling the pain with anger. “The Qun does not yet demand I fix this pustule of a city, and you should all be grateful!” He roared the last words at her.

It was as much as Hawke could do to stand firm in front of him. There could be no doubt any longer that the Qunari were a threat to the city. She glanced quickly at Fenris, to see if his greater knowledge of the Qunari gave him any ideas, but he shook his head, his eyes somber.

The Arishok took a deep breath, releasing the tension from his muscles with an obvious effort. “Panahedan, Serah Hawke. I thank you for your service.” He sat down on the chair, his face a mask again. “Leave.”

Hawke signaled to the others, and they did as they were bade. Outside the compound, she looked worriedly at all of them. “He’s losing it.”

“What do you think was stolen?” Varric asked.

“It must be something of vital importance, to keep an entire unit in abeyance here,” Fenris said. “Perhaps …” He let his voice trail off.

“Perhaps what?”

“Nothing. Merely an idea.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, but didn’t push. “All right, then. I’m going to go see the Viscount, make sure he knows that the Qunari are on edge and about to blow. I’ll meet you all at the Hanged Man later tonight.” 

Hours later, she pushed open the door of the Hanged Man, sinking with relief into the raucous noise within. The Viscount had been worried, too, as he should be, but he didn’t have any better idea how to resolve the problem with the Qunari than Hawke did. Hawke had dropped by her estate to check on her mother, only to be told by Bodahn that her mother was out at some kind of party. She felt a stirring of disquiet at the idea—maybe she should make more of an effort to accompany her mother to these things. Their lives were so separate now. Hawke’s father wouldn’t have wanted that, and neither Carver nor Bethany would have let such a state of things come into being. But Hawke was neither her father nor her siblings, a fact her mother never seemed to fail to remind her of, and it was tiresome trying to live up to three different people’s roles.

She bumped into someone. “Sorry.”

“My fault,” said Norah the barmaid. Norah paused for a moment, fidgeting. “Serah Hawke, have you seen Thorgill around recently?”

“Thorgill.” Hawke racked her brains, trying to remember which of the Hanged Man’s denizens that was.

“Pretty much a sot,” Norah said. “Sat at the table near the door, hitting on every woman who walked in.”

“Oh, yes, that one.” He’d tried hitting on Hawke once, but a quiet word from Bianca—a word that had lanced straight through Thorgill’s mug of ale—had ended that nonsense once and for all. “No, can’t say I have. Don’t tell me you miss him, Norah.”

“Well … you get used to having people around. Hasn’t been in for a few days, which isn’t like him. He hasn’t missed a day in five years or more.”

“I’ll keep an ear out, let you know if I hear anything.” Someone else had gone missing recently, as well, Hawke thought, frowning. Who was that? Finding Varric standing at her side, practically vibrating with some piece of news, she asked him. “Who was it who went missing recently?”

“Missing?” The question seemed to surprise Varric, and he took a moment to change tracks. “Vincento. Blighter’s gone, all right—his landlord has his rooms to let, and had a fire sale to sell off the last of Vincento’s stock. Vincento must be dead, or he’d never have let his stuff get sold for those prices.” Varric grinned. “I almost expected his ghost to reach out of the Fade and wrestle more coin out of my hands.” 

“Get anything good?”

“Odds and ends. One of those flasks that keeps things cold.” Varric moved closer, his grin fading. “Say, Hawke, I’ve had some news.”

“What kind of news?”

“Bartrand’s back in town.”

Hawke’s eyebrows flew up. “Really? Why would he dare show his face around here again? He has to know we both want him dead.”

“All his contacts are here. He’ll get three times the coin for that idol here that he would get anywhere else. And as we know better than anyone, there’s nothing my brother won’t do for more coin.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s taken a house in Hightown.” Varric snorted. “Took it under the name of one of our cousins. Like I wouldn’t have known who it was.”

“Well, then, I say we pay Bartrand a visit. Soon.”

“Agreed. Bianca’s got a few things she wants to say to my sodding brother,” Varric said grimly.

She followed him to the table, taking a quick headcount. Everyone was there except Anders, whose appearance was more and more rare these days. “Anyone see Anders recently?”

Isabela shook her head. “That one’s in a dark place these days, and I don’t just mean the Undercity.”

“And you couldn’t help him? I thought the happy place in your pants was guaranteed to cure any man of what ailed him,” Aveline remarked.

“Why, Aveline, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Isabela said, smirking at the Guard Captain. She sidled closer to Aveline on the bench. “I knew you’d come around eventually.”

“Ew. Keep your distance, whore.”

“There’s the spitfire we all love.”

“Isabela, don’t poke the bear,” Hawke said. “Aveline, you started this.” Maker’s breath, when had she started sounding like her mother? As Aveline grumbled and Isabela grinned, Norah came by. 

“You need anything, Serah?” Hawke ordered the usual ale. Norah went around the table, ignoring Varric, as always, and taking Isabela’s order for another tot of rum and Sebastian’s request for a rare vintage of port before she turned to Fenris. “Sure I can’t get you anything?”

“No, nothing tonight,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at Norah. His eyes were fixed on Hawke’s face with unmistakable meaning. 

“Norah.” Hawke said. “Make mine a water.”

Fenris’s green eyes brightened with pleasure, and Hawke was lost in them and in thoughts of what this night might bring. 

“Sweet thing, we having a meeting?” Isabela’s voice was dripping with amusement.

Hawke felt an unusual blush heating her features. “Um, right. So … uh …” She cleared her throat. “The Arishok, then.” 

She tried to keep the rest of the meeting on a business-like footing, but she kept meeting Fenris’s eyes and losing her train of thought. At last she decided it was time to stop bothering. The smirks and winks passing around the table made it clear everyone knew something was up. “I think that’s all, then, for tonight. We keep an eye on the Qunari, we’ll go pay Bartrand a visit one of these nights, and Sebastian, I haven’t forgotten your request. Ready for us to go to the Harimanns’ with you?”

“Soon, thank you, Hawke.”

“Great, then,” Hawke said. “Good-night, all.”

Fenris stood up. “I will … walk you home, shall I?”

“That would be nice, thank you.” 

The table broke into snickers as soon as they’d left. 

“About time they got to it,” Varric said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Isabela said, stretching languidly. “There was so much tension there, you could practically get a contact orgasm just sitting between them.”

“Must you?” Aveline grimaced.

Merrill stared at the pirate, her eyes as round as gold pieces. “Fenris? And Hawke? Oh.”

“Disappointed, kitten?”

“No … just surprised.” Merrill sighed.

“Has this been going on long?” Sebastian asked curiously.

“Just started, Choirboy. Bet they’ll be tired but happy tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Based on those looks, we won’t see them for three days.” Everyone at the table slowly swiveled their heads to look at Sebastian, who grinned and shrugged. “What can I say, the Chantry was my parents’ last attempt to change my wild ways.”

“You don’t say,” Isabela said, turning toward him with a new interest on her face.

“Isabela,” Sebastian said, gently but firmly. “It worked.”

“Oh. No fun.” She looked at Aveline, who grimaced.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“How I got hooked up with you stick-in-the-muds, I will never understand,” Isabela said with a sigh.

At Hawke’s front door, she turned to look at Fenris. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Then come in.” She pushed the door open, her heart pounding.


	18. Feels Like Tonight

Fenris followed Hawke into the house, halting when she did, in front of the large fireplace in her foyer. None of her servants was visible at the moment, and it was just the two of them, staring at each other. Fenris could barely breathe, and he expected to wake up at any moment and find that this was merely a dream. That a woman like Hawke would desire him seemed unbelievable.

Hawke began to remove her gloves. Her cheeks were unusually pink as she glanced shyly at him. “Would you like to come upstairs?”

_Oh, yes. Yes._ ‘Like’ was an incredibly insufficient word for how much he wanted to go upstairs with her. He just couldn’t seem to get his feet to move or his mouth to speak.

She put the gloves down on a table, on top of a scattered pile of letters. “Fenris?” Her voice was small and faint, unlike the clear tones he was used to hearing from her. Perhaps she was as nervous and unsure as he. She walked toward him, stopping only when their armor was touching. “It’s not too late to change your mind,” she whispered.

Fenris shook his head. “I don’t want to change my mind.” Closing his eyes, he sought her mouth with his, feeling those soft, sweet lips part for him. He ran his tongue along her velvet-soft bottom lip, and she sighed, leaning into him and twining her fingers in his hair. Fenris slid one hand up the back of her neck and into her hair, his fingers seeking the pins that held her bun in place and removing them all, so that her hair fell heavy and silken around her shoulders. 

A sound from another room broke through the haze he was lost in, and Fenris jumped back, looking around.

Hawke laughed. Giggled, really, and he couldn’t stop the answering smile that spread across his face. “This is why I suggested going upstairs. Where there’s a door we can close.” She reached for his hand, and he held onto her tightly, following her up the stairs and into her room.

Hawke closed the bedroom door behind them, and turned to look at him. The room was lit only by the firelight, which played across her face.

She reached to start taking off her armor, and Fenris put his hands on hers. “Let me. Please.” 

“Okay.” She dropped her hands, letting him work on her armor. 

Having a task to accomplish stilled the nerves that were making his hands tremble, and he deftly did away with her armor until she stood before him in leggings and a thin undertunic.

“You’re very good at that. Are you sure you don’t remember undressing someone before?”

His hands were drawn to her body, stroking her back through the tunic as he drew her closer against him. “I have been considering how to get you out of your armor for the best part of four years,” he whispered in her ear. “What did you imagine I thought about while following you around town?”

“Strangely, I thought you might be thinking of the task at hand. Clearly a foolish assumption,” Hawke said, laughing. She laid her cheek against his shoulder, and he marveled at how naturally she fit into his arms.

“Indeed.”

“My turn?” Hawke asked, sliding her hands down his back and toward the buckles on his armor.

Panic seized him, locking his muscles in place. “Hawke—“ It was foolish, he told himself for the thousandth time. But every time he thought about taking his armor off in front of her, standing in front of her naked … Unfair to her though the idea was, he couldn’t rid himself of the worry that she wanted him only for his exoticness, for the markings that twined around his torso and over the muscles of his legs. He didn’t think he could stand to see her eyes gleam with interest at the sight of him and not know if it was him she wanted or if it was simply the conquest of the unknown. “Please, don’t.” He wanted to tell her what he was thinking, but he was mute in the face of his fear. 

Her blue eyes studied his face for a long moment, and then she stepped back. “All right.” She traced a finger along his gauntlet. “These have to go, though.”

“Fair enough.” He unbuckled the gloves, peeling them off and dropping them on a chair. His fingers itched to feel her bare skin. Catching the edges of the tunic, he lifted it up over her head. Hawke reached behind her and twisted something and then the breastband came off. Fenris’s mouth dropped open at the sight of her. “Hawke—Evelyn … you are beautiful.”

She smiled at him, sitting down on the end of the bed and stripping off her leggings and smallclothes. Then she slid back on the bed, her entire lithe, muscular body stretched naked before him. “Come here, Fenris.”

He didn’t know which he felt more, awkward, awed, or simply ablaze. Gracelessly he put one knee on the bed, climbing across to lie next to her. He ached to touch her but he couldn’t seem to make the first movement. Evelyn leaned up, capturing his lips with hers. The touch of her sweet mouth broke the hold fear had on his body. Fenris bent over her, kissing her, and then drew back, his hand stroking the side of her face and then moving down across her jaw and over her neck. Slowly, watching her face, he cupped her breast, stroking the smooth, firm flesh. Evelyn gasped, and her back arched, pushing her breast more firmly into his hand. The nipple stiffened as his fingers brushed across it, and he stroked it with his thumb. Evelyn whimpered, a tiny sound that sent a spike of arousal through Fenris. He closed his eyes against it—he had much more to savor before he wanted to think about his own pleasure. 

More confident now, he moved his hand to the other breast, going straight for the nipple, taking it gently between two fingers and rolling it. He took his time, his fingers tracing circles around her nipples, cupping and squeezing her breasts, and then moving slowly across the lines of her ribcage and her sculpted stomach. Evelyn twisted underneath him, pressing herself against his hand as he explored her body with avid curiosity. Then he felt the touch of her hand on his, her fingers, roughened by years of holding swords, twining with his, and she moved their hands over the startlingly soft patch of hair between her legs and into the hot, wet center of her. Fenris swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, as Evelyn’s fingers guided his, showing him exactly what she wanted. She moaned beneath him, her hips lifting as he learned what she liked. Her hand fell away, her eyes closing, and Fenris slid a finger tentatively inside her while his thumb moved on the exquisitely sensitive spot she’d pointed out to him. He watched her, fascinated, as they fell into a rhythm, his fingers moving inside her as her hips rose and fell, her moans growing louder and more urgent. Then her mouth fell open and the movement of her hips stilled as the hot flesh around his fingers clenched and pulsed. 

After a few moments, her hips dropped back to the bed and her eyes opened. She smiled at him. 

“That was … good?” he asked.

“Don’t fish for compliments,” she said, somewhat breathlessly. “You know it was.”

“Mm.” Perhaps he did, at that, he thought, pleased and proud. He bent, kissing her, his hands tangling in her hair, Evelyn’s arms curving around his neck. He moved his lips to her ear, his tongue tracing the shell and then drawing a line down the side of her neck. Now that he knew her skin was as smooth and soft as he had dreamed it would be, he was consumed with a desire to know her taste just as intimately. He was less hesitant, now, remembering the parts of her that made her twitch and sigh. He tugged on her nipples with his teeth, his tongue curling around the hardened peaks; he nuzzled his way along her ribcage and dipped his tongue into her navel; he pressed soft wet kisses up her inner thigh and lapped at the nectar between her legs, his teeth teasing the tender flesh, his tongue delving deep inside her. Her body twisted and writhed beneath his mouth, her gasps and moans an enchanting melody in his ears.

Evelyn’s hands gripped his hair, holding him to his task, and he could taste the difference in her as her peak approached. She moved with him as the urgency built in her, and shrieked his name as she rode the waves of her climax, sending him trembling with his own need. He sat up, sitting back on his heels. He wanted more, he wanted to sink himself inside her and share the pleasure with her, but … 

She sat up, as well, reaching for him. “Fenris. Will you let me touch you now? Please?” 

The fear was back, holding him petrified. He couldn’t explain this to her, but without explaining, he didn’t know what to do. 

“What is it? What are you afraid of?” She looked at him searchingly, and he wanted to tell her, but the words were locked inside him. “Are you afraid I won’t like the way you look?” Then she gasped softly and her eyes changed, studying him with compassion and understanding. “You’re afraid I will like it. Fenris, is that what you think of me?”

No! Yes? He didn’t know. He looked at her in mute misery, certain that she would send him away now, and deservedly so.

“Stay there. Don’t move.” She put her hand on his shoulder and got up, the firelight shining on her naked body. She walked to the end of the bed, fiddling with something there. The heavy bedcurtain fell closed, cutting off the light from the fire, and suddenly they were in darkness. Fenris was awed by her generosity and thoughtfulness. He simply didn’t deserve such open-heartedness, not from someone like her. He felt the bed shift as she climbed onto it again, and her hands sought and found his arms in the darkness, holding him gently. “Now can I?” she asked softly, and he hoped she could feel him nodding, because he couldn’t have spoken without weeping.

With an ease that startled him, she undid his buckles, his armor a barrier that she attacked with the determination he had seen in her so many times. 

It was strange to be naked, strange and exciting. “How did you accomplish that so quickly?”

She chuckled, the sound throaty and enticing in the darkness that surrounded them. “You aren’t the only one who’s been imagining removing a set of armor for four years. I’ve memorized every buckle and clasp.”

He reached for her, taking her face in his hands. “Evelyn …”

Her mouth covered his, the soft touch of her lips swallowing the words he might have said; the slide of her body against his, their first skin to skin contact, stealing his ability to think, the sensations overwhelming. She pressed him back against the pillows, her hands caressing his chest and torso. He could feel her crossing the lyrium, which shone faintly in the darkness, electricity sparking along the markings at her touch, but she didn’t trace them, as he’d been afraid she might. He relaxed into her touch, sure of her at last. Slowly, as slowly as he had moved over her body, Evelyn’s mouth and hands moved over him, finding sensitivity in places he never would have expected. The ears, of course, but also the junction of neck and shoulder, the hollow of his throat, the line of his sternum. Moans and whispers in his native tongue were drawn from him as those strong, clever fingers explored, as the teasing, wicked tongue tasted. His hands clutched at the bedcovers, frantic raw need blazing inside him until he could no longer endure it and lie still beneath her. 

“Hawke!” he moaned, his voice almost unrecognizable as his own. His hands clutched at her shoulders, pulling her up so he could kiss her mouth, his tongue finding hers, trying to express the desperateness of his desire through the contact. His hands moved on her back, the skin satin-smooth beneath his touch. In the part of his mind that could still form coherent thought, he imagined what it would be like to follow her tomorrow, to watch her in her armor and know what beauty lay beneath it, to stand at her side and know what it was to love her, inside and out. 

The kiss they shared, so urgent and frenzied a moment ago, changed tenor, softening. It was no less erotic for being slower—in some ways it was more so, allowing each and every sensation to wash over him. Here in her arms, a place he had never expected to find himself, Fenris knew the first real happiness he could remember. Twining his legs with Evelyn’s, he rolled them both slowly over so that she lay beneath him. He wished he could see her in the darkness. Pressing kisses tenderly over her face, he said, “Evelyn, I …” But the words he wanted to say, words he had no memory of ever having said, caught in his throat. There would be time enough to say them, over and over again, later. “You are extraordinary.”

Evelyn kissed him again, and he held himself above her, his arms quivering with the strain. She reached between their bodies, taking him in her hands. The feeling was indescribable, and his hips pumped instinctively as she guided him inside her. She gasped beneath him as he filled her, her powerful legs wrapping around his hips, and Fenris lowered himself until their bodies touched. Slowly he withdrew and thrust again, feeling the velvety wet heat of her surrounding him. He moved as slowly as he could, wanting to make this last, but the tension built, the urge to speed up almost unbearable. And as the pleasure built inside him the black place in his mind where the memories lay locked away suddenly lit up in a flood of light and scent and sound, dizzying and intoxicating, the layers of memory unfolding as he thrust.

_He was the sacrifice, the leather straps cold against him as they held him to the table;_  
He was the Champion, Danarius’s drawling voice in his ears for the first time;  
He was the fighter, salt and copper on his tongue as his own sweat and blood filled his mouth;  
He was the brother, Varania’s green eyes before him like looking in a mirror;  
He was the child, curled up on a warm lap that smelled like cookies;  
He was… 

He gasped, the climax taking him by surprise as his body convulsed. It left him shaking in the aftermath, only vaguely aware of moving off of Evelyn, of gathering her in his arms. When he came to himself again, the faces and the voices were gone, the space in his mind black and impenetrable again, and he could have screamed with the pain of the loss. It had been there! All of it—his own name on the tip of his tongue for the first time since it had been ripped from his mind. And now it was gone again. 

“Fenris?” Evelyn’s sleepy voice broke into his thoughts, and he clung to her, stroking her hair, desperately gentle in his overwhelming need to quiet her so he could delve again into the recesses of his mind, frantically looking for what had been his mere moments ago. At least he could hold onto what he had seen. There had been a … woman? With green hair? No, that wasn’t right. There had been … Hot shameful tears trickled out from under his closed eyelids at his inability to call back any of what he had remembered. He bit back the curses and sobs that rose to his lips, hearing the change in Evelyn’s breathing and feeling the shift in her weight as she dropped into sleep. Fenris slid carefully out of the bed, crouching on the floor, trying every trick he could think of to bring back the few precious details he knew had been there before, but the task was fruitless, and the grief took him. He shoved his fist into his mouth, biting down until he could taste the bitter tang of his own blood, to muffle the sobs he couldn’t hold back.

How long he knelt there next to her bed, he didn’t know. The weeping passed, leaving him drained and empty, the reality of his existence outlined stark and black in the dimly lit room. What right had he to be here? He was, at best, half a person: a construct, built by Danarius. Hawke, like the Fog Warriors before her, had given him everything—freedom, friendship, the sweet promise of love. There was nothing he wouldn’t have given her of himself in return—but he didn’t have himself to give. Whoever he had been was gone, taken from him, and what was left was a poor sort of gift, not even approaching what Hawke deserved. She should have something real, someone who had both a past and a future. Fenris had neither. 

Resolutely he stood, gathering his fallen armor, drawing it on as quietly as he could. He felt the familiar pressing need to flee, to be alone with the broken remnants of the dream he had always known this would turn out to be. As he crossed the room to retrieve his gauntlets, his feet brushed over something on the floor that wasn’t carpet, and he bent automatically to pick it up. His mansion was filthy, the floors littered with objects, and he ignored them. But her home was clean, the carpets soft on the feet, and debris on the floor felt out of place and wrong. He picked up the object, turning it over in his hands. It was the tie to her bedcurtain, which she had taken down in response to his needs. Her generosity had overwhelmed him then, and it did so again now. Could he really do this to her, walk out on her without so much as a word? Didn’t she deserve to know what was happening to him? His fingers clenched on the length of heavy red velvet in his hands. 

He stood by the fire, staring into the dying remnants of the flames, the curtain tie clutched in one hand, and he waited, going over and over in his mind things he might say to her.

At last he heard a rustling from the bed as she shifted. He kept his eyes on the fire, not wanting to see the look in her eyes as she awoke. It would be too hard to say what he had to say if she smiled at him or looked at him with the beginnings of … affection. 

“Was it that bad?” 

“No. No, it was fine.” Her intake of breath was like a knife in him, and he turned, unwilling to be so ungenerous. “I’m sorry, that was insufficient. It was better than I could have dreamed.”

Her eyes, so soft and vulnerable, searched his face. “Was it your markings? They hurt, don’t they?”

“It’s not that. It’s …” He closed his eyes. How did he say this to her? “I feel like such a fool. I—“

“What do you mean?” 

“I … just wanted to be happy, if only for a little while.” It was the wrong thing, he could tell that immediately.

Hawke stiffened. “What are you saying? You did this for a moment of cheap happiness?”

“No!”

She pulled the sheet more closely around herself. “Why, then?” 

“Because I l—“ But he stopped himself before that traitorous word could slip out. He had no right to do that to her, to put things on that level when he knew they couldn’t stay there, to burden her with his inability to control his own heart. “I didn’t know what would happen.”

“What did happen? Fenris, this is me! Please talk to me.” She stood up.

“The memories. My memories,” he said, his voice nearly breaking. “They were there … just flashes … and then they were gone. Don’t you see? This is … I cannot do this.”

Hawke furrowed her brow in confusion. “But that’s good, isn’t it? That you got your memories back?”

“Perhaps you don’t understand how upsetting this is,” he said, trying to be gentle with her when all he wanted was to bolt from the room. “I have never remembered anything, and to have it all there, dangled in front of me, and then to lose it again …” He took a breath, willing the tears back. “I can’t. I can’t!”

“We could work through this together.” She was pleading with him. Hawke was pleading with him. 

He shook his head mutely, unable to trust himself to speak.

“Aren’t you even going to give me a chance to help?” she whispered. 

“I’m sorry, _me anim_ *. Forgive me.”

He turned to go, pretending he didn’t hear the soft sniff she gave, pretending he hadn’t just made her cry.

“Fenris!” Her voice cracked on the word. 

He stopped, but he didn’t turn to look at her. He couldn’t.

“You won’t l-leave Kirkwall, will you?” She was fighting to keep control, he could hear it. “I—We count on you.”

Leave Kirkwall? It had been hard enough to convince himself to leave her bedroom—going away from Kirkwall, never seeing her again? That was beyond his ability. “I remain at your side,” he said hoarsely, and he let himself out before he could hear her cry, before he could turn around and throw himself at her feet.

On the way through her foyer he saw the young dwarf, Sandal, standing in the corner and staring at him. The reproach in those wide blue eyes was deserved, and Fenris ducked his head in shame as he fled her house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _My heart._


	19. The Barber and His Wife

Finding himself on the streets of Hightown in the small hours before dawn, Fenris shivered, the nighttime cold too much for his northern blood. To make matters worse, there was a dusting of snow on the ground, each step with his bare feet like walking on knives. He accepted the pain as no more than his due, drawing his thoughts firmly away from the woman he’d left behind him. He put one foot in front of the other, not entirely sure where he was going. His own mansion no longer seemed the haven of refuge it once had—he didn’t trust himself to be alone right now. If he was alone, the desperate begging of his heart to be allowed to turn back might overcome the more considered judgment of his mind that he had no right to burden her with the imperfect love of a damaged elf.

He left Hightown behind him, following a familiar path into Lowtown. He tugged on the heavy door of the pie shop, hoping she’d be open this early. To his relief, the door opened easily. 

Inside, the familiar figure with her ridiculous curls was conspicuously absent, no pie crust draped over the board. But Drury sat in the corner, hunched over a tankard of gin. He looked up in surprise as the newcomer came in. Drury’s eyes narrowed, then widened as he recognized Fenris. Relaxing, Drury allowed himself a small smile. “Welcome, lad. What brings you here at this hour?”

Fenris shook his head. He didn’t know what to say—how to explain that he had just ripped his own heart out of his chest. Strange, he reflected, that he used to pity those whose literal heart he tore from their bodies. Now he envied them; the pain would have to be less if his heart simply wasn’t there anymore.

“Have some gin, then?”

He shook his head. Definitely, gin didn’t seem the right idea. 

“Take a seat by the fire, lad,” Drury said, shifting his foot off the extra stool and nudging it in Fenris’s direction. “You look half-frozen.”

Fenris took the stool gratefully, rubbing his arms and staring miserably into the flames.

“What’s that in your hand, there?” 

In his hand? He looked with surprise at the heavy piece of red velvet, the tie to her bedcurtain. He’d forgotten he was holding it. And in a flash, it was as though he was in her bedroom again, kneeling there as she rose from the bed to take the curtains down. He bit his lip against the groan that threatened to escape.

“Seems like you’ve had a long night,” Drury remarked. He lit a pipe, sitting back in the corner. “If I were to hazard a wager, perhaps it’s a woman?”

Fenris looked up, startled, meeting the other man’s dark eyes.

Drury smiled. “It’s not that hard to tell. I was young once, too.”

“I have never been young,” Fenris said bitterly, turning the velvet band over in his hands. “For a moment, I thought perhaps …” He thought of the brief flash of happiness he’d experienced as he lay beside her. In that instant, he’d felt the future open before him. Now it was gone again, darkness ahead of him to match that behind him. 

“These dreams are difficult to leave behind.” Drury looked at Fenris, his eyes inscrutable. “Shall I tell you a story?”

Fenris shrugged. Listening to someone else’s story struck him as marginally more interesting than remaining mired in the abrupt ending of his own. 

Drury sighed. “Once, many years ago, I was a barber, as I am now. But then … ah, I was young. And she was—beautiful.” 

“She?”

“Dulcie.” The word was little more than a whisper, haltingly issued as though Drury had almost forgotten how to speak the name. “My Dulcie. She was the loveliest girl in Kirkwall, and I the happiest man.”

“I take it that state of affairs didn’t last,” Fenris ventured when Drury didn’t continue.

“Does it ever?” Drury sighed. “I thought I had everything—especially when Dulcie gave birth to our daughter. I was … naïve. Dulcie had been the daughter of a minor nobleman, and her parents had wanted more for her than a marriage to a young and eager, but penniless, barber. I underestimated how much they wanted that.”

“Did she return to her parents, then?” Fenris asked, interested despite himself.

“No. Her mother came to her … but not alone. She brought a nobleman along, a man who had coveted my Dulcie from afar. Dulcie sent him away—she knew her own mind well, and wanted none of him—but he continued to hover, watching her. Always watching.”

“What did you do?”

“I? I realized nothing of this. If I thought of him at all, it was with pity. I should have shoved him off the docks and held him there until the filthy water of Kirkwall Harbor overcame him,” Drury growled, his fist clenching. “But I didn’t see the danger until it was too late. Much, much too late.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I came home one day to find Templars filling the flat. They were lying in wait for me—they dragged me away to the Gallows. I still hear my daughter’s cries in my ears.”

Varric had told Fenris a long while ago that Drury was an escaped mage. It was a somewhat different thing to hear it with his own ears. “I am surprised they didn’t kill you. I understand adult apostates are generally not allowed to live. Or they are made Tranquil.”

“This was some time ago, lad. The Gallows was a bit different then.” A small smile played around Drury’s mouth. “But, even at that …” He leaned forward, so Fenris could get a good look, and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, revealing the telltale sunburst. “They tried.”

“But you … do not act as the Tranquil do.”

“No.” Drury leaned back again, that small smile still quirking the corner of his mouth. “You see, I am not a mage.”

Fenris frowned at him, startled. “How can that be? Why would the Templars bring you in if you were not a mage, much less perform the Rite of Tranquility?”

“They were paid to do so. Paid, and in one case, blackmailed. It was useful to send me away to the Gallows, the one place it was guaranteed I could not return from.”

“Other than death,” Fenris pointed out.

“Other than that. I do not know why they didn’t kill me. Perhaps they thought Dulcie would be more likely to agree to go with the noble if she thought I was an apostate.” He shrugged. “It made no difference. I was dragged away, my protestations falling on deaf ears. It made no difference to them that I could not do magic, or that I had no connection to the Fade other than what all humans and elves have. My brother told them otherwise.”

“Your brother?”

“He was a Templar. Years before he had committed the grave crime of helping a mage escape. Somehow the nobleman knew about this, and he held it over my brother’s head, until Maurevar agreed to bear false witness against me. He claimed my seeming inability to do magic came from the vastness of my power, not from the lack of it. The Templars dragged me away to the Gallows, where they performed the Rite.”

“And … your family?” In Fenris’s mind, the lady had Hawke’s face, the Templar Danarius’s. This was the fate he was saving her from, the eventual day when his master came to reclaim him. Yesterday morning that day had seemed escapable, but today … He shook his head. He’d been a fool ever to think he could escape permanently. 

Drury’s face tightened, a tempest raging in his eyes. “Gone, these ten years. The nobleman took my daughter. My wife … I’m told she’s dead.” The storm died, his eyes glittering as he looked Fenris in the eye. “It’s too late, anyway. That man, the husband and father, was killed by the Rite of Tranquility. But I know this: One day I will stand before that nobleman, and his henchman, the man who bound my hands when I would have touched her one last time, and I will see the look on their face when I tell them my name.”

“Drury?”

The older man shook his head. “My real name. Christopher Carver.” An unpleasant smile curved his lips. “It will be the last thing they hear.”

Fenris turned to look into the fire. Was it not better to have no memory than those that consumed this man? He smoothed the piece of red velvet over his knee, wondering why he was holding onto it. That dream was over; foolish to keep a reminder of it. He lifted his hand, ready to throw the fabric in the fire. But his hand halted, his mind filling with her laughter; her scent, which still lingered on him; the understanding in her eyes before she got up to take down the curtain. So many memories had been stripped from him—how could he throw these away of his own volition? He wrapped the band of red velvet around his wrist.

Drury leaned back against the wall, watching the younger man with eyes full of sympathy.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
When Fenris left, Evelyn collapsed on the edge of the bed, her legs unable to hold her. She buried her face in her hands, biting her lip to overcome the urge to cry. She hated to cry—that sick, empty, dried out feeling that came afterward, the swollen misery during, the stinging tickling ache before. 

How long she sat there, trembling with the effort of suppressing the deluge, she didn’t know. The winter light brightened the windows by the time she moved from the bed, refusing to look back at the rumpled sheets. She got dressed, closing the door of her room firmly behind her and walking through the house to the kitchen. Bodahn and Orana were chatting idly while Bodahn stirred a pot of porridge and Orana mended one of Hawke’s undershirts that had popped a seam. They looked up as Hawke came in.

The cheerful ‘good morning’ froze on Bodahn’s lips. “Anything I can do for you, Messere?” he asked instead. His eyes shifted to look past Hawke to Sandal, who made a few gestures with his hands, and then Bodahn’s face softened and he looked at Hawke with a pity that made her want to vomit. “My lady?” he said softly.

“You can stop looking at me that way,” she snapped, immediately feeling guilty. “I’d like you to pack me a picnic hamper. And Orana, change my sheets. Immediately.” The idea of spending a night in the midst of sheets that still carried his scent was tempting beyond belief, and that temptation had to be removed.

“A picnic hamper?” Bodahn looked outside at the grey winter day and back at Hawke, who raised her eyebrows. “Of course. I’ll have it for you in a few moments.”

Orana put the mending down and left the room. Hawke looked at Sandal, whose blue eyes were soft and sad on hers, and she fled the kitchen as those hated tears threatened to burst loose again.

Within a few minutes she was climbing the stairs to the Viscount’s Keep, hamper in hand. 

Aveline, of course, was in the midst of a meeting with a set of guardsmen, leaning over her desk and speaking vehemently. They were nodding at her, fully indoctrinated in the Aveline Way. Hawke had to admit that, uncompromising and overwhelming as her friend could be, Aveline kept the streets of Kirkwall as clean as anyone could.

As Hawke paused in the doorway, Aveline looked up. “Dismissed, guardsmen,” she said crisply. They dutifully got up and filed out of the room. Aveline stood watching them go, her eyes faraway.

“Wasn’t that … oh, what was his name. The guard we rescued from the ambush years ago. Donald?”

“Donnic.”

“Right. Doing well, is he?”

After a pause, Aveline said, “Yes, he’s in fine sh— He does his job adequately. What brings you here, Hawke?”

“I … Can I convince you to come with me on a picnic?”

“Picnic? It’s the middle of Haring, for the Maker’s sake, Hawke! Cold enough to freeze your arm off.”

“I know, but … I need to talk to you. Somewhere that isn’t Kirkwall. I need to get out of this place, if only for an hour or so.”

Aveline gave Hawke a long look. “All right.” She collected her guard-issued cape from a hook in the wall, told her assistant she’d be gone for a few hours, and followed Hawke out of the keep. “Are you going to tell me about it?” she asked, hurrying to keep up with Hawke’s long strides as they moved through Hightown.

“In a minute. Let’s get out of here.” Hawke kept her head down. The last thing she was prepared for right now was to run into Fenris on the way. 

At last they were sitting in a relatively sheltered campsite on the Wounded Coast, a fire going and cups of still-warm tea in their hands. All that remained of Bodahn’s excellent muffins were the crumbs they threw to the gulls.

“Now, Hawke. Tell me.” 

“It’s … uh …”

“Fenris.” At Hawke’s surprised look, Aveline smiled. “You weren’t exactly subtle last night.”

“Oh.”

When her friend didn’t elaborate, Aveline sighed and then chuckled. “I can’t believe I’m asking this—that pirate whore must be contagious. Was it … bad?”

“No! Oh, no.” Hawke shivered, but not with the cold. She could still feel his unbelievably gentle hands exploring her body. No one had ever touched her in quite that way before, as though her pleasure was the only thing that mattered. “But it’s over. He— He left.”

“I take it you didn’t expect that.”

Hawke shook her head. 

“Are you sure? The way he looks at you—I can’t imagine it being over so quickly.”

“It’s not about me. It’s about him, and Danarius, and his past, and … it’s complicated.” Hawke hiccuped, a sob rising uncontrollably in her throat. “And you know Fenris, when he says a thing, it’s said.” She sniffled, clenching her jaw. She was not going to cry. 

“Surely he’s not the first man to—“ Aveline began. Hawke glared at her friend, and Aveline shrugged. “I saw you on the way here from Ferelden, and I used to listen to Bethany’s stories. You’ve had one-night stands before.”

“But I never cared before!” Hawke protested. “Why does this bother me so?”

“Because you still have to work with him?” Aveline drew in her breath sharply on a sudden thought. “Or did he leave Kirkwall?”

“No, he’s staying. Can you imagine Kirkwall without him?” Hawke said softly. She didn’t even want to contemplate the possibility.

“Oh,” Aveline said in a tone of sudden comprehension.

“What?” 

“Do you truly not know why this is different?” Aveline’s green eyes were soft with compassion as she looked at her friend. Hawke shook her head mutely, and Aveline said, very quietly, “You love him.”

Hawke’s head snapped up, her jaw dropping. Love? Such a drastic word had never occurred to her. It seemed so … permanent. So real. How would she even know if it applied to her? 

“Don’t you?” Aveline pressed.

Hawke threw her hands up helplessly. “I don’t know. How did you know? With Wesley?”

“Wesley wouldn’t take no for an answer. Every time I turned around he’d be there with wildflowers, or sharpening my sword, or just … smiling at me. Until one day it occurred to me that I didn’t know what I would do without him there.” Aveline’s mouth turned down. “I knew when I couldn’t face the idea of going on without him.”

Hawke glanced sympathetically at her friend. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to—“

“No, it’s all right.” Aveline squared her shoulders. 

Dropping her face in her hands, Hawke let the idea wash over her. She didn’t know what she would do without Fenris, that much was true, and she couldn’t face the idea of going on without him. If he left Kirkwall,   
she wouldn’t rest until she’d found him. Did that mean she loved him? 

“What are you going to do?” Aveline asked.

“What can I do? He didn’t leave the door open so much as a crack—he slammed it shut and bolted it.”

“And you’re just going to let him get away with that?”

“I’m not going to beg, Aveline,” Hawke snapped. “Would you?”

“Of course I—“ Aveline began, but then she stopped herself. “No. Truthfully, I wouldn’t.”

“And you know how stubborn he is. It wouldn’t work anyway,” Hawke said. She stood up, brushing sand off herself. “I suppose it doesn’t matter if I love him, then.” But it did, and she did, and the tears spilled over, too many for her to dam them back any longer.

Aveline stood up, too, crossing the campsite and putting her arms around Hawke. As Hawke cried into the smoky-smelling wool of Aveline’s cape, the Guard Captain muttered quietly, “That elf better watch out. Danarius is going to be the least of his problems after this. I’ll … I’ll have that mansion of his condemned.”

Hawke chuckled through her tears at the threat. “Don’t, Aveline. It’s not his fault that I was foolish.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself for this situation.”

“But I do. I pushed him and wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Hawke pushed the loose hair back from her face, stepping away from the other woman. “It’s my fault, and I’ll just have to live with it. What choice do I have?” She bent, packing up the picnic supplies. “Thank you for listening, Aveline.”

“Anytime.” 

“Is there … anything you want to talk about?”

Aveline looked up, her eyes brightening for a moment. Then she shook her head. “No. But thank you for the offer.” She glanced at the sky. “I should be getting back.”

Hawke sighed. “I suppose I should, too.” They walked back together, each lost in her own thoughts.


	20. A Story Being Told

“Blondie, you can’t hide yourself away here forever.” Varric leaned back in the rickety chair, hoping it wouldn’t break. The clinic was buzzing, as always—there was never a shortage of people ready to take advantage of the mage’s soft heart and self-imposed sense of obligation. “You should get out of here occasionally, come to the Hanged Man.” Varric was starting to get desperate for company. Fenris hadn’t been seen in a week; Hawke was fighting mercenaries and raiders like a madwoman, which left her so exhausted she collapsed early every night; the Rivaini was off hunting for her relic; Aveline didn’t come around if Hawke wasn’t there; Daisy was more and more obsessed with restoring her mirror; and Varric had next to nothing to talk to the Choirboy about, so they just sat there staring at each other. It was sodding lonely, is what it was. Entirely too much like his life had been before Evelyn Hawke came into it. 

Anders glanced up from a ledger. “That’s not such a good idea.” The mage looked ten years older than when Varric had first met him, drawn and haggard with too many sleepless nights.

“You can’t keep blaming yourself.”

“I nearly killed that girl. And she was a mage! I’m meant to be helping people like her, not scaring her out of her wits with my—“ Anders caught himself as his voice rose, looking around to see if anyone was listening. “Here I matter. Without me, where would these people go? Darktown needs me.”

Varric sighed. He couldn’t blame Anders—a month or so back he’d lost his shit entirely on a young mage they were saving from the Templars, and only Hawke’s intervention had saved the girl. But hiding himself away in the filthy depths of Darktown wasn’t the answer. The line between Anders and the spirit of Justice he had merged with was blurring more and more, and Varric worried for his friend’s very identity. “All right,” he said, getting off the chair. “I’ll let it go for now, but I’ll be back, Blondie.”

“I’ll be here,” the mage said wearily. “Oh, Varric, before I forget. Tell Hawke one of the miners from the Bone Pit was here—“

“Hawke’s not going to want to hear about those guys and their eternal ‘injuries’.”

“She should hear this. Hargis is missing. He was training for an overseer’s job, was supposed to have an interview with Hubert’s assistant, never showed up. Hawke might want to look into it. Hargis was a good man.”

“I’ll tell her. Take care of yourself, Blondie.”

Anders snorted, turning back to his patients.

Outside the clinic, Varric unslung Bianca, holding her tenderly at the ready. It didn’t do to walk around Darktown alone—not unless you were so desperate for company you were almost willing to talk to the Merchants Guild. He heard the jingle of armor coming toward him, and his fingers caressed Bianca’s stock, readying for the attack.

“Thought I might find you down here.” Hawke’s tall figure loomed out of the darkness, and Varric sighed with relief. 

“Hawke! Feeling … better?” He was dying to know what had happened between Hawke and the elf. Hot and heavy stares one night, next day neither of them was to be seen, and not for any good, sweaty reason, either. There had to be a story there, and Varric was about ready to make one up if he didn’t hear some details.

“Fine.” He clearly wasn’t getting details from Hawke. Her tone was downright forbidding. “Let’s go get Anders.”

“We have a job? Blondie’s not going to want to—“

“Yes, he will. Tonight we go after your brother.”

Varric grinned. He loved it when she used that steely, determined tone. Bartrand richly deserved the full brunt of whatever had gotten under her skin, and Varric couldn’t wait to see it.

As Hawke had predicted, facing Bartrand was enticement enough to get Anders out of Darktown. On the way to Hightown, Isabela melted out of the darkness to join them in the pursuit. Varric considered asking if they should stop for the elf, as well—Fenris had been locked in the Deep Roads with them, after all, possibly he deserved some share in the revenge—but Hawke went the long way around in order to avoid going near Fenris’s crumbled mansion, so Varric decided not to bring up the topic.

Bartrand’s house looked strangely abandoned.

“Varric, you’re sure?”

“My informants tell me he’s still here.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Hawke muttered, surveying the cobwebs around the doorframe. 

Varric dug out his lockpicks and had the side door open in a matter of seconds. Cautiously, Hawke stepped inside. For a moment, Varric thought about what it would be like if he were here on his own. He imagined mowing down Bartrand’s guards, yelling out witty challenges as they just kept coming and Bianca took them out with one shot apiece, and then having Bartrand on his knees before him, begging Varric to spare his life.

Hawke tugged his ponytail. “What are you, getting cold feet? Let’s go!”

He came back to himself, blinking. “Sorry. A little distracted.”

“Seems to be going around,” Hawke muttered. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and Varric was relieved to see it. Grim determination was well and good, but he’d missed laughing with his friend. He followed Hawke into the house.

“No! You’ll never touch it!” A man rushed out of an antechamber, hefting a double-bladed axe. “Kill you all!” he shrieked, launching himself at Hawke. She dodged the onrush, bringing her blade around to slice deep into his neck. Several others, all yelling incoherently, followed him. When they were down, Varric nudged one of the bodies, frowning. All of the men wore Bartrand’s livery.

“What’s wrong with them?” he asked. 

“They’ve gone off their rockers,” Isabela said. “Does your brother usually have this effect, Varric?”

“Not that I can recall, no,” he said. “I mean, Bartrand’s a pain in the ass, but usually people manage to hold onto their sanity.”

The rest of the mansion, which looked almost as rundown and dilapidated as Fenris’s, was a similar story. Crazed men in Bartrand’s colors attacking them, babbling incoherently. In one room lay the bodies of a number of servants, many of them with chunks of flesh gouged away. 

“All right, Hawke,” Varric said, “now I’m starting to get worried. Before, I mostly wanted to kill my brother. Now I want to make sure he’s okay, and then kill him.”

As they emerged cautiously into the mansion’s great room, they heard movement on the landing above them, and a dwarf scurried down the stairs with a relieved expression on his face. “Ancestors be praised, Varric!” he cried in a deep, choked-up voice. 

“Hugin, what’s happened here?” Varric asked. The usually stoic retainer was wild-eyed and nearly crying with relief.

“That sodding statue,” Hugin said. “Bartrand said it sang to him. He started making everyone else in the household eat lyrium so they could hear the song, too. He said everyone had to hear the song.” Hugin’s eyes fell. “I wanted to hear it, too, but he ran out of lyrium. Sometimes he would come back to himself, and those times he hated the statue, he wanted to destroy it. On one of his clear days, he sold it.”

“He sold it?” Hawke asked sharply. “To whom?”

“I don’t know. He … by the time he came home, he was incomprehensible. I couldn’t understand him. He just kept babbling about how he had to get that statue back. Then …” Hugin’s breath caught in a sob. “He started cutting his people to pieces, hacking chunks of their flesh away. He said it was the only way he could hear the song again. Varric, help him!”

Varric could only stand and stare at the other dwarf. This story sounded nothing like his sensible, if money-hungry, brother. “Run,” he finally said to Hugin. “Get yourself out of here. I’ll—I’ll take care of it.”  
Hugin didn’t wait. They heard the heavy front doors slam behind him in a matter of moments. 

“Varric?” Hawke was looking at him with concern. “You all right?”

He pulled himself together. “Let’s go see what kind of a mess Bartrand’s gotten himself into this time.” He wanted to think that his brother deserved everything he was suffering from and more, but he kept seeing images from their childhood—Bartrand helping him learn to tie a shoe, Bartrand teaching him to cheat at Wicked Grace, Bartrand teaching him not to get caught cheating at Wicked Grace. He marched up the stairs and to the door of the large master suite, kicking at the heavy wood. “Bartrand, open this door!”

The door exploded open, and an enraged dwarf with a giant hammer in his hands burst out of it, yelling at the top of his lungs. Varric barely got out of the way in time. Bartrand’s mad rush took him past Hawke without noticing her. She rapped him on the back of the head with the pommel of her sword, and Bartrand slumped to the ground. Isabela wasted no time tying Bartrand to a chair in the master bedroom, and Varric slapped his brother in the face, possibly a bit harder than was strictly necessary, to wake him up.

“Varric?” Bartrand’s blue eyes were faraway, looking through Varric to something behind him. Something wondrous, it seemed. “Varric, it’s calling me. It wants me back. She won’t care for it—her heart is like ice. Help me hear the song again, Varric.”

“Bartrand, what have you done?” he asked, desperately hoping he could shake the greedy bastard he’d grown up with back into the vacant face before him. “Your people—what have you done to your people? Where is your dwarven honor?” To the best of his knowledge, Varric had never used the phrase “dwarven honor” in a non-ironic sense before, but he found now that he meant it. Some things dwarves just didn’t do, and if going crazy and eating their servants wasn’t on that list, well, it should be.

“I need to hear the song. It will tell me what to do.” Bartrand’s cracked voice hummed something, but Varric couldn’t make out the tune.

“This is … I’ve never seen anything like this,” Anders said, coming forward to examine Bartrand. “If he were human, I’d suggest demonic possession, but he’s a dwarf. Such a thing really shouldn’t be possible.”

“Can you—please, Blondie, tell me you can do something.”

Anders shook his head. “Maybe.” He concentrated for a moment, his hands on either side of Bartrand’s head. There was a blue flash from the mage’s hands, and he stepped back. “That should help, but it’s only a temporary solution. His mind … Varric, I’m sorry. He’ll never get better.”

Varric swallowed. He’d envisioned this moment many times, picturing his righteous rage teaching Bartrand a lesson once and for all. This was nothing like what he had expected, nothing at all. “Bartrand, can you hear me?” he asked softly.

“Varric, help me.” He’d never heard his brother’s voice so broken and faint. “Make it stop. There’s nothing in my head but the song. I’ve listened and listened until I can’t hear anything else. Help me, Varric. Please!”

He took a step back. “I can’t,” he whispered. “Bartrand, don’t ask me this.”

Hawke’s hand rested on his shoulder. “There’s nothing more you can do, my friend. Give him peace.”

“I can’t! Don’t you see, Hawke, I wanted him to be punished. The idol’s done worse than I ever could. Maybe we could just … leave him like this.” Even as he said it, Varric knew he couldn’t—not even Bartrand deserved to end up this way.

“If you don’t,” Hawke said, “what happened here will only be the beginning. None of these people deserved what happened to them. Bartrand included.” She squeezed Varric’s shoulder. “Do you want me to do it?”

Warmth flooded him, relief that he had such support. “No. Thank you, Hawke, but this … I have to do this.” He took a step back, raising Bianca, feeling the silky wood under his fingers, reassuring him that this was the right thing to do. “Good-bye, Bartrand.” His brother’s ice-blue eyes were already losing their clarity, and Varric felt nothing as his finger caressed Bianca’s trigger, sending oblivion through his brother’s heart. As Bartrand’s chair toppled over, Varric turned away. “Hanged Man,” he said succinctly. “Drinks, and lots of them. Now.”

The others fell into step behind him, Hawke next to him, shortening her long strides to match his shorter ones. There would be work to do tomorrow, cleaning up Bartrand and his mess, but for tonight, he wanted to forget what had happened in the Deep Roads and in this house.

After several hours of drinking and talking, during which they carefully avoided any mention of the horrors they had left behind at Bartrand’s, Hawke unfolded her long form from her chair. “Time for me to be home, Varric. There must be something important I have to do tomorrow.”

He peered up at her, noting the shadows under her eyes and the turned-down corners of her mouth. Varric had always been more comfortable as an observer, watching and recording other people’s lives rather than living his own. Tonight he’d had more than enough of his own drama. He wanted to bring back his friend’s good humor. “You want to talk about it?” he asked.

“No.” The word burst from her with unusual vehemence. 

“Suit yourself. You know, if you ever need a shoulder …”

“I know.” She smiled affectionately at him. “Luckiest day of my life was the day I met you, Varric.”

“That wasn’t luck. That was careful planning,” he boasted. “We’re meant to be. Hawke?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks for coming with me tonight. I couldn’t have faced that without you.”

“Anytime.”

“Anything I can do for you in return?”

She shook her head. “I wish, but no.”

“Not even go get your elf for you?”

Her eyes flicked to his. “You’d do that?”

“’Course. What are friends for? But someday I expect you to tell me the story.”

“And hear it in all its graphic detail from every mouth in town? I think not, Varric.”

“I’d make it tasteful! You’d weep to hear how you knelt at his feet, begging him to stay—“

“Varric!”

“Too much? Or do I have that the wrong way around?” Varric grinned at her, covering his all-consuming curiosity, but her expression made it clear he wasn’t getting any answers. At least, not from her.

“One of these days, my dwarven friend, you’ll go too far.” 

“I go too far every day, Hawke.”

“And yet you’re still alive. How have you managed that?”

“Haven’t you noticed how charming I am?”

Hawke chuckled. “Good-night, Varric.”

“’Night, Hawke.” Hmm, he thought. _Night Hawke_. A series of stories about a masked super-hero reclaiming the streets of Kirkwall one night at a time? No, too far-fetched, he decided. He’d stick with the real Hawke. She was more than hero enough.

The next day’s team meeting was scheduled for the Hanged Man at noon. Varric was determined to drag the elf there, if he had to. He was up and about early, heading across Hightown to the tumble-down mansion. 

The house smelled like a winery. “At least he’s got good taste in hooch,” Varric said to himself, picking his way over loose floor tiles and fallen chunks of plaster. If a dwarf had been holed up in here drinking for a week, the place would have smelled a lot worse.

“Get out!” 

“You’re still alive?” Varric feigned shock as he pushed open the door of the study. 

Fenris was lounging in one of those hideously upholstered chairs he seemed to love so much, looking remarkably cool and sober for a man surrounded by a sea of wine bottles. “Which part of ‘get out’ was I not clear about?”

“The part where you don’t get to make that choice,” Varric said bluntly.

“She sent you, did she?”

“Yes.”

“What did she tell you?”

The storyteller in Varric longed to say “Everything!” and see if he could get all the details out of the drunk Fenris that he hadn’t been able to get out of the unhappy Hawke. But who was he kidding? This was Fenris. Details were not going to be had, drunk or sober. “Nothing,” he said instead. “Not that I couldn’t guess.” He waited to see if that mild lure would bring a bite.

“Then you know I’m not going back out there. I can’t … How can I face her?” Fenris tilted up the wine bottle, cursing in Tevinter when he found it empty.

“So you’re not waiting here to see if she’ll come after you? That’s what you’d do if this was a good story,” Varric said, disappointed. These people had no sense of quality storytelling, that much was clear.

Fenris shook his head. “She won’t. She has too much pride.”

“She’s trying not to make you uncomfortable, you ass!” Varric snapped. He cared for few people as he cared for Hawke, and it stung to have her misinterpreted by someone who should know her better. “She’s worried about you.”

“She is?” Something brightened the elf’s dull eyes for a moment, then it faded again. “Yes, she would be. She’s a good leader.”

“You know, something tells me if I actually knew the whole story, I’d want to hit you,” Varric said bluntly. “But I don’t know what happened, so I’ll reserve the hitting. For now. Meanwhile, she wants to get you out of this pit before you brood yourself into oblivion, and that I can do.”

“I do not brood!”

“You keep telling yourself that.” Varric chuckled. He looked around the room for some kind of leverage, but beyond the wine bottles, there was little to indicate that anyone actually lived here. At last, Varric’s sharp eye spotted a deck of cards. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You play Wicked Grace?”

“Of course!” Fenris seemed shocked that he’d had to ask.

“Good.” Varric’s confidence in his own powers of cheating was vast. “We’ll play a round of Wicked Grace. You win, I leave you alone and tell Hawke—“

“Don’t say her name.”

Fenris’s voice was too dark to play with. “Fine. If you win, I’ll tell her that you left the country and said you’ll be back next Kingsway. If I win, you come out of here and let me send someone in to fumigate the place. I’m getting drunk just standing here.”

“I didn’t know dwarves got drunk. I thought you were so steeped in alcohol it could no longer affect you.”

“That’s lyrium. Actually,” Varric said thoughtfully, “it’s not too far from the truth where alcohol’s concerned, either.”

“Fine. Deal the cards.”

“On what?” Varric looked around at the mess. He was used to the Hanged Man, where someone always cleaned up after him. “You know, you could always come live at the tavern.”

Fenris just looked at him, one black eyebrow raised.

“Or not.”

Fenris pushed all the scattered junk off the desk, and pounced eagerly when he heard the satisfying thunk of something hitting a bottle that wasn’t empty. “I knew that wasn’t the last one!”

Varric shook his head, dealing quickly with a practiced hand while Fenris’s attention was on unearthing the full bottle. He switched a couple of cards.

“Hey. What did you do there?” Fenris asked suspiciously, rising from the pile of debris with the full bottle in his hand.

“There was a spider walking on the card,” Varric lied. 

“Oh. Not surprising.”

They sat down to the game, both focusing on the cards for a few minutes. Several moves in Fenris placed a card on the discard pile, and Varric’s eyes took on an avaricious gleam when he noticed the red velvet band tied around Fenris’s wrist—a red band that had not been there a week ago. Varric knew a good story when he saw one.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“I see. Is it hers, perhaps?”

“Be careful, dwarf.”

“Perhaps a piece of her smallclothes? Something intimate and—“ He stopped as Fenris’s markings started to glow. “Right. None of my business. Don’t know why I asked.”

“Your turn, I believe,” Fenris growled.

“Oh, is it?” It wasn’t. Varric laid the winning card (cleverly concealed in his coat until this moment) on the table. “Well, by the Stone,” he said. “I think I won.”

“You know you won, you cheater.” 

“Cheat? Cheat?! I would never!” Varric said, but he couldn’t hide the little smile. “Let’s go, elf.”

“See if I ever play cards with you again,” Fenris grumbled.

“We have a tournament every Wednesday. Fifty silver buy-in.”

“Count me in next week.”

Varric dropped Fenris off at Mistress Blodgett’s to get something to eat. The elf was painfully thin, and Varric wondered what he’d been living on all week. Wine, he supposed. He settled himself at the usual table in the Hanged Man, with a good view of the room. Hawke was standing at the bar, getting the same stale news the bartender spouted at everyone, Varric assumed.

Every time the door opened, Hawke’s eyes went straight for it, and Varric’s eyes went straight for her face. At last, she saw what she was looking for—without glancing at the door, Varric could tell the elf had arrived. Hawke’s whole face lit up, then darkened as whatever answering look she wanted to see didn’t come. She walked across the room toward Fenris, her eyes roaming over him. Varric could see the moment she noticed that red wristband he was so curious about. Hawke clearly knew what it was—her eyes softened, and she reached toward the elf, his name on her lips.

Fenris drew back, out of reach. The elf’s features were carefully schooled into an impassive mask.

Hawke’s shoulders slumped, and she pulled her hand back as though it had been burned. She seemed to come to a decision then. Crossing her arms over her chest, she drew herself up and glared at the elf. “Where in the sodding blight have you been?” she snapped. 

Varric could have sworn he saw relief in the elf’s eyes. 

“Won’t happen again,” Fenris snapped curtly, and he moved past Hawke to their table. 

Varric shook his head. Poor, stubborn people. Didn’t they have any idea how to conduct an epic romance?


	21. The Dance

Hawke didn’t bother to knock; none of them did, at this point. But once inside the sagging front door of the derelict mansion, she didn’t pause with her usual privacy-protecting shuffle of feet and clearing of the throat, either. Her imagination had painted a number of different receptions to her visit, few of them positive, and she knew if she stopped to think about it she’d turn and leave again, losing any chance she might have of salvaging things between them.

She climbed the familiar stairs, noticing that the walls sported new holes. Round ones, as though he had punched his fists through them. The evidence of his torment didn’t make her feel any better.

Fenris was standing near the fireplace, his arms crossed forbiddingly over his chest. His eyes flicked up when she came in, but there was no emotion in them, his expression carefully blank. A talent learned during his years as a slave, no doubt.

Hawke stood there awkwardly, unsure what to say. Finally, she held out the book she’d been carrying. “New reading material.” They’d finished the last book just before their night together. She’d allowed herself a few fantasies about what that might have been like, a reading lesson with the possibility of truly delicious rewards for his hard work. She looked down at the book to avoid meeting his eyes, not wanting her thoughts to show on her face.

He crossed the room to take the book, holding it by the corner to avoid the slightest contact with her. He scanned the cover. “ _The History of the Fi— of the Fifth Blight_. By Brother Gen …” His voice trailed off as he scowled at the unfamiliar word.

“Genitivi,” Hawke supplied. “He’s a prominent scholar. Apparently he was with the Hero of Ferelden when she went to the Temple of Andraste.” She shrugged. “I thought it would be interesting.”

“Indeed.” His eyes were hidden behind that shock of white hair. He circled the desk, sitting down behind it, his strong, slender fingers dexterously riffling through the pages.

Evelyn remembered the touch of those fingers on her skin. She ached to feel his hands on her again. Of its own volition, his name left her lips. “Fenris …”

“Don’t.” 

“Can’t we talk about this?”

“No.” The word brooked no argument, and Hawke took a step back from the stolid determination in his voice.

“But I—“

“NO.” Then, more quietly, “You don’t.”

She swallowed against the bile that rose in her throat, suddenly angry. What a stupid sodding waste. Nothing stood between them but his stubbornness and his cowardice. And your pride, whispered an inner voice. If you bent, the voice said, would he? Hawke shook her head. She hadn’t done anything wrong, she shouldn’t have to plead with him. More to the point, she simply couldn’t bring herself to beg, or to use the passion they had shared as some kind of persuasive angle. No. If this was the way he wanted it, this was the way he would have it. “Fine.” She glared at him, further angered by the release of tension in his shoulders when she spoke. “Then let’s get this started. I have places to be.”

He nodded briefly, turning to the beginning of the book. “Deep beneath the soil lies the city of Orz—Orzammar?” He paused, waited for her confirming murmur, then continued. They made it through the first chapter, telling of the Hero of Ferelden’s exile, her escape from the Deep Roads, and her subsequent recruitment into the Grey Wardens.

As he came to the end of the chapter, Evelyn squinted out the dirty windows, calculating the angle of the sun. “Time for me to go.” Maliciously she added, “All sorts of parties as we approach Firstday. Mother’s dragging me off to dance with a lot of nobles tonight. She still hopes to marry me off.”

If she hadn’t known him as well as she did, she might have missed the way his fingers straightened out to avoid curling into a fist. “Good for her,” he said, but his voice was thick.

“Yes. Perhaps it is.” She turned to go.

“Hawke.”

Evelyn cursed herself for the flood of hope that stopped her in the doorway, her heart pounding. “Yes?”

“If you deem my reading ability sufficient, perhaps we could move on to writing at some point.”

Hawke pressed her lips together to stop their trembling. “Of course. Should have thought of it sooner.”

She didn’t look back on her way out of the mansion. The thud of the heavy door closing behind her was like a physical blow, and the enormity of what she’d lost staggered her, causing her to grasp at the doorframe to hold herself upright. Not just the passion, or the love; she’d lost her friend. His half-smiles, the light in his eyes that conveyed more humor than another man’s guffaw, the knowledge of his understanding and support. Her stomach twisted with the grief and the anger.

But there was nothing to be done. She had to accept this the way she had accepted the loss of Father, the loss of Carver, the loss of her life in Ferelden: head-on. She didn’t know any other way.

For a moment she stood by the door, breathing in the crisp, cold air. Then she straightened her spine, walking across the frosted ground with firm, decisive steps.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
“You’re wearing that?” 

Hawke turned at the sound of her mother’s skeptical voice. 

“What’s wrong with it?”

Leandra frowned. “I can see we have a great deal to work on, if we’re going to give you the stature to go along with this house.”

“It seems fine,” Evelyn protested, looking down at her clothes. She was wearing a red dress with a modest collar and wide bell sleeves. It laced down the front and split over a black skirt. She found it comfortable and practical—two reinforced pockets on the inside of the dress held emergency daggers.

Her mother sighed. “You look like a pirate.”

Evelyn smothered a smile. This dress had enough fabric for three of Isabela’s. “I’ll tell you what, Mother—the next time I commission a new dress, you can pick it out for me.”

“I should have done that this time, but I had a hard enough time getting you to have a new dress made up at all.” 

“I still can’t see what’s wrong with it.”

Leandra studied her daughter’s face. It was a rare moment in which Evelyn felt her mother was seeing beyond the absence of Bethany and Carver and Father and Leandra’s own parents and actually seeing Evelyn. “I never did teach you how to be a woman, did I?” Leandra said with regret. “How could I expect someone like you to be able to fall in love—you wouldn’t even know how.”

The cut stung, however unintentionally, and Evelyn turned her face away.

Misunderstanding her daughter’s reaction, Leandra came closer, putting an arm around Evelyn’s waist. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll take you in hand. I’ll teach you everything there is to know about landing a young man.” She squeezed Evelyn’s waist tighter, saying happily, “I can’t tell you how nice it is to have something to teach you for a change. You’ve always been so self-sufficient. And to think, all this time you were being prickly with me because you’re shy.”

Evelyn suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, but only barely. The brightness in her mother’s face was too rare to be disturbed just to make a point.

“I’m sad that my new beau won’t be there,” Leandra continued. “He’s not really the dance type, I’m afraid, although I have hopes I can help him adjust his attitude a bit. He’d look so nice in some of the new fashions. A nice dove grey, perhaps …” 

“Your new beau?”

“Oh, haven’t I told you about him? Yes, he’s been courting me.” Leandra actually blushed. “Silly, perhaps, but it’s so nice to have someone make a fuss over me again. Come along, Orana,” she said to the little elf, who scurried after her. Orana spent a fair amount of time trailing in Leandra’s wake. The two got along quite well. Possibly, Evelyn thought with some cynicism, because her mother had grown up with elven servants. She seemed to understand how Orana expected to be treated. And in return, well, there was no escaping the fact that Orana was the daughter Leandra had always wanted. Quiet, shy, interested in ladylike things like sewing and clothes—something neither Evelyn nor Bethany had ever been. In another life, perhaps, had Bethany not been a mage, she’d have been content with the life of a housewife—children and household management and all that. But as things fell out, Father spent so much time tutoring Bethany in the art of mage-hood, and in hiding her power, that she’d never picked up more than the basic rudiments of any household skills. Evelyn had learned to cook out of self-defense, because Leandra hated to. She hated to get her hands dirty. Hawke, on the other hand, never minded it. Dirt, sauce, blood … all were the marks of hard work, and working hard was a trait she had learned well in Ferelden. And since.

With a last tug at the skirt of her dress, Hawke left the room.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The dance was pretty much what Hawke had expected: boring, hot, and not helped at all by the stale refreshments and flat punch. With relief, she spied the bright spot—Varric was here. He made his way through the crowds toward her, making the movement a dance in and of itself. “What are you wearing?” he asked as he neared her, frowning.

“You, too?” she snapped. “It’s perfectly fine.”

“On Aveline, maybe. That kind of military style suits her. But on you, it just shouts ‘I’m a mercenary, check me for concealed weapons’.” He chuckled. “Actually, that’s not a bad message, depending on the company you’re trying to attract.” 

“Incorrigible.”

“I do try.”

“Anything happening of note?”

“The sweet potato puffs aren’t bad, but I’d stay away from the shrimp wrapped in nug strips. Domesticated nug.” Varric shuddered. “Can you imagine?”

Hawke rolled her eyes, but the snappy retort she was about to make was interrupted by a faint clearing of the throat behind her.

“Serah Hawke? I’m surprised to see you here.” Saemus Dumar bowed before her. No doubt about it, he was a good-looking boy, she thought, admiring the way his silk shirt matched his eyes. 

“Saemus! It’s good to see you.”

“Care to dance?”

“Um …” She saw Varric nodding violently, and smiled at the boy. “Of course. A pleasure.”

“Excellent.” Saemus swept her onto the dance floor. Hawke ignored the murmurs and stares as people tried to discern who the Viscount’s son had chosen to honor with a dance. She was too occupied concentrating on her feet. She knew how to dance—it wasn’t unlike fighting, if you thought about it—but it didn’t exactly come naturally. Saemus was an expert, though, and he made it easy to follow his movements. After a few moments, he cleared his throat again. “Serah … do you—have you seen much of the Qunari recently?”

“Only when they allowed thieves to steal a deadly gas that might have killed us all,” she said tartly.

“Yes, I heard about that. They believed it was right.” The boy’s earnest blue eyes met hers. “Following the Qun is the path of honor.”

Hawke shivered. The boy was an idealistic young true believer, as well as the son of Kirkwall’s ruler—it was a potent and dangerous combination. “Be careful,” she said. “Remember what happened before? Your father sent those mercenaries to track you down, and your friend Ashaad was killed. If you don’t take care, more people could die.”

She could tell by the stubborn set of his jaw that whatever he had decided, her words hadn’t swayed him. Casting about the room for another suitable topic of conversation, she glimpsed Terrien, looking dashing but severe in dark grey, dancing with a young blond woman. “Who’s that dancing with Terrien?”

Saemus glanced over. “His ward, Susannah. Also his intended.” 

“He’s marrying his ward? Is that allowed?”

The boy chuckled indulgently. “If you have enough money, anything’s allowed. And Terrien has more than enough.”

“What about the girl?” Hawke caught a glimpse of the young woman’s face—the girl looked almost frightened. “She doesn’t look happy.”

“No one knows. He’s kept her pretty isolated. There was talk for a bit that she might be a suitable match for me, but … not my type. At all. And I don’t think Terrien was ever keen on the idea. He appears to have wanted her for himself.” He looked at Hawke with curiosity. “What of you, Serah?”

“That seems rather forward.” Hawke flushed, thinking with sudden longing of what it might be like to dance with Fenris.

“Your mother has, er, been a tad insistent.” Saemus’s cheeks were rather red, as well.

“Oh.” They were silent for an awkward moment. “That was not my idea.”

“I am glad to hear it. Um …” The boy’s cheeks were bright scarlet now. “Your dwarven friend, is he … uh, entangled?”

Hawke’s eyebrows flew up. She was surprised they didn’t leave her face entirely. “More or less,” she said.

Saemus nodded, sighing. “As I would have expected.” He stepped back with a gentlemanly bow as the music ended. “Thank you, Serah.”

“Thank you. And, Saemus?” So many admonishments went through her mind as he stood waiting for her to speak, but she settled on repeating herself. “Be careful.”

He acknowledged her comment with a dip of his head before turning to make his way through the crowd. Hawke watched him with discomfort—she wasn’t sure whether she was afraid for Saemus or afraid of what his zealotry might start, but either way, it seemed unlikely to end well.

“Serah? How … interesting to see you here.” Seneschal Bran bowed before her, and Hawke looked at him warily. He’d never hidden his contempt for her, and wasn’t easy to deal with when she ran into him in the Viscount’s keep. She couldn’t imagine what he might have to say to her in this setting. Berate her for intruding for where she didn’t belong, no doubt—

“Would you care to dance?” he asked.

Shocked, Hawke stammered something incomprehensible, but he seemed to take it as assent. She found herself in his arms as he moved into the complicated motions of the dance. “Uh … nice night?” she ventured.

“Indeed. This is your first soiree, then?”

Great, now he was looking at her as though she was a country rube. Well, she supposed she was. “Yes.”

“Your mother is a great favorite at these. It’s good to see Mistress Amell settling back into the society she was born to.” 

Hawke had forgotten the seneschal was so much older than she—he looked quite youthful, actually, but she knew he had a son not far from her age. He was old enough, at any rate, to remember Hawke’s mother before she’d run away to Ferelden. Any surprise Hawke might have felt at his comment was swallowed by her growing irritation with her mother. All night, it had been “Mistress Amell” this and “Mistress Amell” that. What had happened to the great love Leandra always professed to have shared with Hawke’s father, that now she wouldn’t even fight to keep his name? Did she want to pretend that none of it had ever happened, that the lifetime spent in the dirty backwaters of Ferelden was naught but a dream? Hawke sighed loudly.

“Something discomfits you, my dear?”

“What? No. Thank you for asking,” she remembered to add.

“These events can be … overwhelming, if you’re not used to them.” She was aware of his face very close to hers, his brown eyes studying her with what could only be described as interest. Politics makes strange bedfellows, she thought wildly, and suppressed an urge to giggle. 

“Any news about the Qunari?” she asked instead, wincing as she realized how abrupt she sounded.

Bran moved slightly away from her. “I have hopes that things might be improving, actually. The Qunari have agreed to send a delegation to meet with the Viscount. Perhaps we might be able to discern what it is they’re actually here for.”

“You don’t buy that they’re here waiting for a boat?”

“Do you? We all know how efficient they are. If a boat was coming, it would have been here long before now. No, they’re waiting for something.”

“I wonder what.”

“You’re so tight with the Arishok, why don’t you ask him?” It was the closest he’d come to the sneer he usually greeted her with, and Hawke felt a measure of relief at the question.

“Maybe I will,” she shot back.

The music began to slow, the song coming to an end. Bran cleared his throat. “I saw you dancing with young Saemus.”

“Yes. He’s a nice boy, if … misguided.”

“A delicate word. I understand your mother—“

Hawke’s groan cut through his words.

“Ah. Not your idea, then?” She shook her head, and Bran actually smiled. “That’s heartening.”

“It is?”

“It would be my honor if you would allow me to escort you to dinner some evening,” he said, bowing over her hand.

For a moment, Hawke felt as though a hand was squeezing her heart, pain stabbing her in the chest. Fenris, she thought. But that chapter was over—he’d made that very clear. She could wallow in her longing, or she could tear her heart free with both hands. The Seneschal wasn’t unattractive, and getting to know him better could be useful. At last she said, “That sounds … nice. Thank you for asking.”


	22. Love Actually

The Viscount’s Keep was chilly as usual, and hushed—many of those who usually created a buzz in its high-ceilinged chambers were still recovering from the parties that had filled the week of Firstday. Fenris was glad for it. Making his way through crowds of people always put him on his guard; he was constantly expecting one of them to be his master in disguise, or someone paid by his master to haul him back to Tevinter. An emptier room meant greater visibility. Not so much that he could relax, never that, but enough so that he could focus on the far greater stress of accompanying Hawke for the first time since the night he had spent with her, over a month ago now.

What a fool he had been. What a fool he continued to be. He’d fled her room to escape the fresh agony of losing all recollection of his past again, only to find himself constantly tormented by the new memories he couldn’t forget: Hawke’s mouth on his flesh, Hawke’s cries of pleasure as he touched her, the understanding that had filled her eyes as she grasped the fear he couldn’t put into words. They were the most treasured memories he possessed, but the very vividness of them was like the agony of the ritual all over again. He followed her now, unable to keep his eyes from wandering, unable to keep himself from thinking about what lay beneath her ever-present armor. 

It was a relief to reach Aveline’s office, even if the Guard Captain did stare at him stony-eyed. As did Varric, for that matter, but the dwarf covered it better. 

“Hawke, I’m glad you came,” Aveline said. She was fidgeting as she leaned against her desk. “I have a commission for you. A task I couldn’t entrust to anyone else.”

“Name it,” Hawke said. 

Aveline dug a package out of her desk drawer, handing it to Hawke. “You must deliver this to Guardsman Donnic. You can’t tell him who sent it, and you can’t ask questions.”

“But … why can’t you give it to him?”

“That’s a question, Hawke.”

Hawke and Aveline stared at each other for a moment, Aveline’s arms crossed firmly over her chest. “Fine.” Hawke turned around and left the office. “Anyone see Donnic recently?” she asked the milling crowd of guards, one of whom jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward the mess hall.

Next to Fenris, Isabela yawned. “I should have known whatever Aveline had for us to do would be boring. Be more fun to try taking that stick out of her arse.”

In the mess hall, they found Donnic just rising from his table. He always had a very serious demeanor, and today was no exception. “Serah Hawke,” Donnic said, bowing slightly at the waist. “You’ve been busy recently, and I believe Kirkwall is the better for it.”

“Thank you.” Awkwardly, Hawke stuck the package out. “This … is for you.”

Donnic’s eyebrows rose as he took the flat, square package. He turned it over in his hands before ripping off the plain brown paper. All of them stared at the object in silence, equally mystified. At last Donnic said, slowly, “It … appears to be a copper relief of marigolds.” He looked more closely at the bottom of the frame. “Yes, it helpfully says so. ‘Marigolds.’”

“Do you … understand it?” Hawke asked, her tone not optimistic.

The guardsman shook his head. “No. Do you?”

“I’m afraid not. Uh, you keep that,” she said when he tried to hand it back to her.

“And do what with it?”

Hawke shrugged. 

They returned to Aveline’s office. The Guard Captain had been pacing; she stopped in midstride when Hawke threw open the door. There was a vulnerability in Aveline’s face that Fenris had never seen before, and he wondered if her gift to Donnic had been a personal one. Hawke didn’t seem to be thinking the same way, however. She stalked across the room glaring at Aveline.

“Want to tell me what that was about now?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?”

Hawke’s raised eyebrows answered that one.

“It should have been obvious. Metal is strong; copper ages well; flowers are soft. No?” Aveline looked at Hawke, but no understanding dawned in the warrior’s face. “All right, I can fix this. I need three goats and a sheaf of wheat.”

“Man-hands has gone off her rocker,” Isabela observed. “Things just got a lot more interesting around here.”

“I believe she may be attempting a courtship. And approaching it with the kind of fear usually reserved for dragons,” Fenris said. He felt uncomfortable in this situation, to be discussing Aveline’s romance at all, much less with Hawke in the room, standing right next to him, so close he could have touched her. 

Aveline’s eyes moved to Fenris, the sudden flush on her cheeks confirming his statement.

Isabela laughed. “To think, here I was worried about the stick up your arse, and you were only thinking about getting a stick in your—“

“Shut up, whore!”

“Make me, prig.”

“You filthy slattern, how dare you poke your nose in my affairs!”

“You don’t have any affairs to poke a nose in. Or anything else. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Isabela and Aveline were standing toe to toe, chests heaving, staring into one another’s eyes. 

“This just got a lot more interesting,” Varric said. “Ten silvers, elf.”

“On what?”

“On … anything.”

“Done.”

“Oh, for the Maker’s sake.” Hawke got between the other two women, pushing them apart.

“I can’t tell if she just ruined all our fun, or made things better. Forty silvers.”

“No bet,” Fenris said. 

“But—“ Varric looked up at him. “Right.”

“You know, Aveline, if you’re trying to court the man, I could just drag him in here,” Hawke said.

Aveline shook her head sadly. “That would look like an abuse of my position.”

“Oh, Andraste’s pink bits,” Isabela said in exasperation. “Invite the man to the Hanged Man, get him drunk, sit on his lap. Or I will, if you’re too chicken.”

“Shut your face, you poxy— Wait, would that work?”

“Anything can happen in the Hanged Man,” Varric said.

“Very well,” Aveline said. “Hawke, you set it up. Tell him … anything. Except that he’s meeting me. Donnic isn’t like the others, I don’t want him to think I’m …”

“Panting over him like a mabari in heat?”

“Oh, get out, Isabela,” Aveline said, turning back to her desk.

“See you tonight, Aveline,” Isabela sang. She practically skipped from the room. 

Outside the Viscount’s keep, Hawke caught Isabela’s arm. “Do me a favor, don’t … mess this up for her.”

“Who, me?” Isabela laughed, tearing herself away from Hawke and tripping lightly down the steps.

Hawke sighed. “Aren’t you coming with us to the next job?”

“What, help out the Chantry prince and miss setting up Aveline’s private party? You wish!”

“Why did I bring her?” Hawke asked Varric. She was carefully not looking at Fenris, and hadn’t done so since Aveline’s revelation.

The dwarf grinned. “Because you had no idea what a literary goldmine it would be.”

They moved down the steps and deeper into Hightown, heading for the Harimanns’, where Sebastian was meeting them. The archer was pacing in front of the mansion, his lips moving as though practicing what he would say, or, knowing Sebastian, praying. When Hawke arrived, he breathed a sigh of relief, turning to ring the bell. They could all hear its deep tones echoing far into the house, but there was no response. Which was odd—even if the Harimanns were out, a servant should have answered. Fenris’s was the only mansion in Hightown not run by a cadre of servants.

When no one appeared, Sebastian tried the door, which opened easily. They walked into what appeared to be an empty house. 

“Something is very wrong,” Sebastian said. “This is not like the Lady Harimann I knew.”

He led the way farther into the house, up the stairs, and down the darkened corridors. In the back of the house, they found a young woman whose fine clothing was in disarray threatening a wine vat with bodily harm if it didn’t produce more wine. She was so far gone with drink that she didn’t even notice their presence. At the top of the house, a young man engaged in debauched sex acts with an elven courtesan and a feather. He didn’t notice Hawke’s team, either.

They regrouped in the foyer, and Sebastian sat down on the steps, his mouth open. “Something is terribly wrong here. I’ve known the Harimanns all my life—Flora’s no drinker, and her brother Ruxton is the biggest prude you’ve ever met.”

“Bigger than you?” Varric murmured, and Hawke shushed him.

“I think we’ve been everywhere, Sebastian. What should we do now?” 

It wasn’t like Hawke to defer to someone else for a decision. Fenris looked at her with surprise. She was standing over Sebastian, her features soft with concern. Did she feel something for the man? A tenderness? Hot anger rushed through Fenris’s veins, and he turned away to calm himself. It did make sense, after all. Sebastian was on Hawke’s level—a former prince, someone who could be a prince again, was far more suitable to someone of Hawke’s native nobility than an escaped slave could ever have been. And Sebastian was a genuinely good man. He cared about people in much the same way that Hawke did. Yes, Fenris thought with decision, Hawke needed to move on, and Sebastian was the perfect candidate.

“There’s always the basement, I suppose,” Sebastian was saying as Fenris turned back to the conversation. “I don’t know what might be there, but we haven’t looked there yet.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Hawke said with a firm nod. 

They followed Sebastian back through the labyrinthine house, which might have been confusing if all the houses in Hightown hadn’t been designed with the same floorplan. Even the décor was similar. Although none of them looked quite like Fenris’s mansion. 

In the basement, Flora Harimann and her brother were waiting for them. Their eyes were odd, Fenris noted. It was as though they were asleep standing there.

“Come no further,” Flora said.

“Flora, what has happened here?” 

She moved like a marionette, as if someone else was controlling her limbs. Blood magic? Fenris wondered. Or demonic possession? Either way, this basement stank of magic. He fought the urge to draw his sword.

“Stop!” commanded Flora’s brother. “You are not … allowed …” His voice trailed off as though the power controlling him had run out. Both of the Harimanns slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Sebastian knelt over their prostrate bodies. “They live, but for how long? We must find out what’s causing this.” He stood up, surveying the basement.

“Spent a lot of time down here, did you?” Varric asked, clearly hoping for some kind of juicy gossip.

“Yes,” Sebastian said absently. “Flora and I liked to play the Maker and Andraste when we were little.” Fenris saw the wink Sebastian sent in Hawke’s direction and the grin she smothered. The Maker and Andraste,   
indeed, Fenris thought.

From a dark corner in the back of the basement, Sebastian called out, “There’s a hole here that’s new. Shall we?”

“By all means,” Hawke said, following the sound of the archer’s voice.

They descended deep into the ground, down a set of crumbling stone stairs. “A ruin? Beneath Hightown,” Sebastian muttered. “This can’t be good.”

“When is it ever?” Varric asked.

At the bottom, they found an intricate series of passages, all of them predating Kirkwall. They also found a bountiful supply of shades, demons, living corpses, and revenants. Fenris had to admit to himself that it was nice to get back to fighting again. It felt right to stand next to Hawke, swinging their blades in a practiced ballet. They’d been fighting together long enough to anticipate each other’s movements, ducking and twisting to avoid the other person’s sword. Bianca’s bolts moved through the air at appropriate moments. Sebastian, sensibly, tended to work on the outliers with his arrows, to avoid any chance that he might shoot one of them by accident. Being new to the team, he didn’t have the instinctual feel for everyone else’s style yet. No doubt he’d learn. Without a mage accompanying them, they had to rely on poultices and potions to heal the various cuts and burns, but Fenris preferred that. It was always a relief to him when they went into battle without a mage and he didn’t have to keep part of his attention on watching his own teammate.

At the very end of the ruins, in a large cavern, they found Lady Harimann kneeling at the feet of a rather sated-looking desire demon. “I’ve given you everything I have, but it isn’t enough! I need more power if I’m to rule Starkhaven!”

“You have nothing left that I desire,” said the demon in her sibilant, caressing tones. Fenris felt the soft stroke of that voice in his ears, sending a shivering tingle through him. “But perhaps these people do.” The demon turned to look at them.

“What have you done to her?” Sebastian demanded.

“Nothing she did not beg me to do.”

“But … my family! You made her murder my family!”

“I could have done so, if I chose, but it is far more entertaining simply to nurture the desire that is already there. Shall I whisper to you of your own desires? Of the power you cannot stop yourself from thirsting for? You deny it to yourself, you hide what you want behind the face of your goddess, but I can see what lurks in your heart.” The demon smirked at the face of Andraste that adorned Sebastian’s belt buckle. “And those of your friends … I can see into their hearts, as well.”

With an effort, Fenris wrenched his mind away from the red mist of desire that was filling it. While the demon’s attention was on Sebastian, Fenris shifted into the shadow. Danarius had demanded he learn showmanship, to hide himself until his presence was to be revealed, and he had been beaten if he couldn’t escape the notice of Danarius’s guests until his Master wished him to be seen. It was those skills Fenris called on now to blend into the darkness. 

Sebastian was listening to the demon in spite of himself, his face flushed. Hawke’s blue eyes were glazed, and Varric unconsciously stroked Bianca’s stock. Fenris watched the dwarf’s movement for a moment, the Desire Demon’s words sliding like silk across his sensitive ears. He had touched Hawke that way, his hands exploring the smooth, soft skin, his tongue— He caught himself before his thoughts could wander further in that direction. The choice to leave Hawke’s bed had been the right one, he had no doubts on that score, no matter how much he longed for things to be different.

As he moved carefully toward the demon he counted backward from one hundred in Tevinter to distract himself from the demon’s words. Then, when he was within striking distance, he drew his sword and unhesitatingly slashed off the demon’s head. 

Sebastian swayed, putting a hand to his head, the flush slowly fading from his cheeks. Hawke’s gaze met Fenris’s briefly before she blinked and looked away. Were those tears in her eyes? He wished he could bear to speak to her of what had happened between them; but truthfully, she ought to hate him. If she did, he didn’t want to hear her say it, and if she didn’t, that knowledge would be equally dangerous. 

“Let’s go,” he heard her say to Sebastian, who nodded, looking bewildered and shocked.

Hawke and Varric moved on ahead, leading the way back through the ruins. Sebastian fell into step next to Fenris.

“I can’t believe Lady Harimann harbored such desires in her heart. She was my mother’s friend!”

“People cannot always control what they want,” Fenris said. 

Sebastian nodded. “And when a demon whispers, few among us have the strength to resist. I included, it appears, to my eternal shame. How were you able to close your ears to the demon’s seductions, my friend?”

Fenris stared into the darkness ahead of them, watching the torchlight play on Hawke’s armor. “Once I held in my arms everything I desire. And I turned away from it of my own will. The demon had nothing greater than that to tempt me with.”

The former prince looked at him sympathetically, and Fenris realized with dismay that Sebastian knew exactly what he was talking about. “Hawke is an understanding woman,” Sebastian remarked.

“Hawke deserves more than she lets herself reach for,” Fenris heard himself say. “She should have someone at her side who is of her station, someone who can offer her a home and … a family.” He took a deep breath. “Will you return to Starkhaven, now that you have dealt with those responsible for your family’s death?”

“No. My place is here, for now. I made vows to the Chantry. I cannot break them, not unless … unless I was sure I wanted the princehood for the right reasons. For my people, and not for myself.”

“You are a good man, Sebastian. You and Hawke make a good pair.” Fenris couldn’t believe he was being so pushy about this. Maybe the temptation of an unencumbered Hawke always before him was too much. He wanted to see her settled with someone worthy of her, to cauterize his open wounds.

Sebastian stared at Fenris. “Are you suggesting …? Me? And Hawke? No, my friend. My vows to Andraste do not allow for such entanglements on my part.” He hesitated, then went on. “Besides, Hawke seems able to find her own match.”

“She what?” This was news to Fenris. Disturbing, unwelcome news.

He saw a faint smile on Sebastian’s face before the archer turned away. “I believe that Hawke is having dinner with the Seneschal this evening.”

“Seneschal Bran?!” The high-pitched squeak was a tone Fenris had never heard from his own mouth before, and he hastily closed it, hoping Hawke hadn’t heard him. 

“Yes.”

“I see.” So much for him finding her a suitable match. Apparently she’d prefer to be sneered at by someone who wasn’t fit to wipe her boots. Well, that was fine with Fenris.

After a pause, Sebastian spoke again, more seriously. “Are you an Andrastian, Fenris?”

“Are you attempting to convert me?” He welcomed the distraction of a new topic, however. “Perhaps. I have no memory of my childhood, and my Master had no interest in teaching his slaves to think they were considered worthy, even by the Maker. But then, if the Maker considered us worthy, why would he have abandoned us?”

“The Maker didn’t abandon you, Fenris.”

“He didn’t help me much, either.”

“And yet you stand here, free. Perhaps he helped you more than you think.” Gently, Sebastian added, “The Maker has room at his side for every soul, Fenris. Even yours.”

Sebastian and Hawke stayed behind at the Harimanns’ to take care of Flora and her brother as they recovered from their possession. Varric and Fenris walked across Hightown, hoping to reach the Hanged Man before Isabela could finish her setup. Sebastian’s job had taken a lot longer than any of them had expected, and it was well on in the afternoon. 

The Hanged Man was already bustling when they got there, and Isabela looked entirely too pleased with herself. “Is Aveline here yet?” Varric asked.

“She’s upstairs.”

“Rivaini, you know Aveline will kill you if you mess this up.”

“I know. That’s half the fun.”

Varric groaned as Isabela disappeared into the room behind the bar. “We should find out what she’s done. Hawke will kill us all if any of this gets Aveline in trouble.”

“I hate to say this, but what if Isabela has the right idea? You saw how Aveline struggled this morning. Maybe Isabela’s interference is just what she needs.”

“You know, elf, you might just have a point. Besides, whatever Isabela has planned would have to be a better story.” The two of them collected their ales from the bar—Norah the waitress refused to serve Varric, part of a long-standing feud over his chamber pots—and found a table.

Hawke came in a little later, already dressed for her dinner with the seneschal in a green velvet tunic over an underskirt the color of harvest wheat. She looked tall and lovely, and Fenris felt his throat constrict. He had to forcibly drag his eyes away, reminding himself that all her beauty was for another man.

She seated herself at a table near the door, watching for Donnic. The guardsman, still in uniform, arrived a little later. His countenance fell when he saw Hawke, dressed for a date and sitting alone. Fenris couldn’t hear what they said to each other, but at last Hawke prevailed on Donnic to sit down and have a drink with her. 

Aveline came slowly down the stairs, her steps halting. She, too, was dressed for a date, in a completely unbecoming shade of pink. The dress might have been nice otherwise, but she wore it so awkwardly it hung in all the wrong kinds of folds. Biting her lip, the Guard Captain paused at the bottom of the steps. Hawke looked up, locking eyes with Aveline, and the disaster that was the dress imprinted itself on Hawke’s face. Aveline turned crimson, then white, tears sprang to her eyes, and she turned, running back up the stairs.

Hawke rolled her eyes—Fenris didn’t think she’d seen how upset Aveline was—and turned back to Donnic, who hadn’t seen Aveline since he was sitting with his back to the stairs. It seemed that Donnic was getting up to leave, when suddenly two scantily clad people ran in from the room behind the bar. Fenris recognized them; both were elves employed by the Blooming Rose. A fiddler in the corner struck up a rollicking tune, and both elves began dancing, gyrating in front of Hawke and Donnic.

Isabela appeared in the doorway behind the bar, smirking. But only until she realized who the woman was, when she rushed forward, but her protests couldn’t be heard over the music. Fenris watched the male elf wiggle his hips practically in Hawke’s face. He understood what Isabela had done, that she had assumed it would be Aveline sitting there, and even the twisted logic that had led to the pirate buying Aveline and Donnic lap-dances … but watching another man, another elf, for that matter, dancing so suggestively near his Hawke … Bile rose in his throat, and he got up from the table, climbing the stairs to find Aveline.

The normally stoic Guard Captain was sitting on Varric’s bed, fitfully tearing at the sleeves of the disastrous dress. She sniffled. “It’s no use. I’m an idiot. Why did I ever think this was a good idea?”

“Aveline.” He spoke sternly, and she looked up at him. “You are squandering something precious with no consideration for its value. This,” he gestured to the pink dress, “is not you. Nor is the debacle Isabela staged.”

“Isabela?” Aveline’s normal tones were returning, and she made as if to stand up from the bed.

“Leave it alone. Hawke and Varric will straighten it out. You need to decide if Donnic is what you want.”

Aveline bit her lip. “He is. He’s a good man. Warm, and kind, and amusing. He takes his duties seriously, and he looks at me as if … as if … But maybe I’m just imagining it.”

“What is it worth to you to find out?”

“Everything.” The word came without hesitation, and seemed to surprise Aveline.

“Then do it in a way that makes you comfortable.”

“What way is that? I’m only comfortable on patrol, and I can hardly express my … explain … Fighting bandits simply isn’t conducive to romance!”

Aveline was a nice woman. Honest, and forthright, and she deserved to be able to grasp happiness once she found it. Fenris made up his mind to help her. “It would be if there were no bandits to fight.”

She looked at him with dawning understanding. “You would do that?”

“I would. And so would Hawke. And Varric. Trust us.”

“I will.” She got to her feet, her face softening. “I— Thank you, Fenris.”

He nodded, leaving the room to let her change in privacy. Downstairs, Hawke was gone. On her date, no doubt. Donnic had left, and Isabela and Varric were laughing. Hopefully the whole disaster had gotten cleared up. Fenris waved to his companions and set off into the wintry night. He told himself he was walking aimlessly, putting one foot in front of the other. When he reached Hawke’s courtyard, he told himself he was here to inform her of what he had promised Aveline. But he had no facile story to tell himself about why he waited concealed in the shadows across from her door, shifting from foot to foot in the cold, until he heard her voice approaching.

Her hand lay on the Seneschal’s arm, and she was listening attentively as he rambled on about something. She allowed the Seneschal to lead her to her door, and she turned to him. 

Fenris couldn’t tear his eyes away. The memory of being the man at her door, of seeing her face turned toward him there, the desire evident in her eyes, was burned on his brain, imprinted on the very backs of his eyelids. He’d have given anything to be able to cross the courtyard right now, to push the Seneschal away and to beg her for her forgiveness. But it was too late for that. He could only watch as the Seneschal’s head moved toward hers, could only breathe a sigh of relief as her head turned so that the Seneschal’s mouth brushed across her cheek instead of her lips. She smiled at him, said good-night, and stayed at the door as the man walked away, whistling, his arrogance palpable. 

When the Seneschal had disappeared in the darkness, Fenris thought Hawke would turn to go inside. Instead, she lifted her chin, staring across the courtyard directly at the shadows where Fenris was hiding, her face an unreadable mask. A gust of wind moved across the courtyard, and this time she did go in, leaving Fenris shivering there in the darkness, certain at last that there was no going back. Whatever might have been between them, it was over now.


	23. On the Steps of the Chantry

“Are you certain this will work?” Aveline asked, fiddling with her shield for the fourth time in as many minutes.

“Yes, of course,” Hawke said with a certainty she didn’t entirely feel. The irony that it was Fenris who seemed most determined to help Aveline out of the romantic mess her own reticence had gotten her into wasn’t lost on Hawke, and it irritated her. Where was all this belief in romance when he walked out of her bedroom in the small hours of the morning? And now here he was prancing about Kirkwall with her curtain tie on his arm but a heart as closed as the doors of the Gallows.

“You don’t look confident,” Aveline said.

“It’ll be fine, Aveline,” Varric cut in. “We kill the bandits, you talk to Donnic.”

“Right. I talk to Donnic.” Aveline looked slightly green at the thought. She jumped when they heard Donnic’s voice calling for her. “All of you, get moving! Don’t let him see you!”

“So what’s the plan?” Isabela asked when they were out of sight of the Guard Captain. 

“We kill the bandits, she talks to Donnic.”

“Really? That’s no fun at all.”

The four of them moved up the sandy paths of the Wounded Coast. There were, as always, a few camps full of bandits around. Hawke sent Isabela sneaking into the camps first, which was always good for two or three of the bandits, and then Isabela would flush the rest toward where Hawke and Fenris were waiting. Bianca did her bit, as well, picking off any who tried to flank the fighters. Hawke lit the signal fires to let Aveline know the coast was clear, and they hung around, concealed in the brush, until Aveline and Donnic caught up. 

Aveline proved incompetent at the small talk, hesitantly attempting to discuss proper care and formation of blades, stammering through a conversation about the strange quietness of the patrol, and even uttering the extreme inanity “It’s a nice night for an evening.” Hawke winced at that one. As far as she could tell, Aveline was doomed. 

If anyone seemed more uncomfortable than Aveline, it was Donnic, who appeared extremely distracted. His answering comments came slowly, and often Aveline had to call his name to get him to speak. 

“I knew she was hopeless, but this is just pathetic,” Isabela said. 

“Even Bianca’s a better conversationalist than that,” Varric added.

Fenris was silent, which Hawke was glad for. If he’d commented on Aveline’s relationship skills, Hawke would have had to hit him.

“I’m putting a stop to this,” Hawke said with determination. She started down the path in the direction Aveline and Donnic had gone, back towards Kirkwall.

Before Hawke could reach them, an outcry arose in their direction. She ran toward the sound, sprinting around a jutting outcrop of rock to find Donnic battling a pair of bandits over Aveline’s prostrate form. Hawke pulled her blade. Donnic took advantage of the distraction her presence caused to slice open the jugular of one of the bandits, while Hawke took on the other. Fenris’s onrush followed hers closely, and between the two of them the bandit was soon face-down in the sand.

Hawke turned to her friend, but Donnic was quicker, kneeling in the sand and taking Aveline’s head in his lap. He removed the kerchief she wore, using it to wipe up a trickle of blood over her eye. “Aveline.”

Aveline stirred, groaning, and her green eyes opened. When she saw Donnic leaning over her, concern and relief on his face, she sighed. Then her pleased look changed to one of alarm, and she tried to scramble up. Donnic’s arms tightened around her. “Not yet, you don’t. That was a nasty blow to the head. You stay right here until I’m certain you’ve recovered.”

There was no mistaking the tender tone in his voice. Hawke couldn’t repress a smile. All it had taken was Aveline being vulnerable for once. In that case, she had definitely turned to the wrong people for help—none of Hawke’s team knew much about vulnerability.

“Guardsman.” Aveline was trying for her usual no-nonsense tone, but her voice came out breathy and full of wonder. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Aveline.” His head bent toward hers.

Hawke blinked away tears, fiercely refusing to ask herself if they were happiness for her friend or jealousy for herself, and dragged Isabela away from the scene. Donnic was studiously ignoring their presence, not that she blamed him, and Aveline wouldn’t want them watching. 

When the four of them had left the embracing couple behind, Hawke heard an unmistakable sniff. She looked down at Varric. “I always knew you were a softie.”

“Soft? Me? I’m trying to decide what to do with the story.”

“’Hard in Hightown’?” Isabela asked. “I have a few ideas. I could write them down for you, if you like.”

Varric chuckled. “Rivaini, I don’t think I’m old enough to read what you’d write.”

“Come on, Varric, let me try.” Isabela slung her arm over the dwarf’s shoulders. “I’ll make my first character a sexy dwarf with chest hair every woman wants to run her fingers through.”

Isabela and Varric pulled ahead as they came through the side gate of Kirkwall, leaving Hawke and Fenris walking together. Hawke could feel her heart pounding, her breath coming short. It was exciting just to be near him. Unlike Seneschal Bran, who was pleasant when she was with him outside the Keep, but stirred nothing in her beyond politeness. She’d been out with the Seneschal twice this week, both times entertaining evenings—he was a charming man when he wanted to be—but as a method of getting past her feelings for Fenris, it had been a total failure.

It was almost a relief when an alley in Lowtown erupted with members of the area’s new gang, the Dog Lords. It wasn’t their first encounter with cells of the gang, but Hawke still wasn’t prepared to fight mabari. As a born and raised Fereldan, she had all of that country’s native reverence for the mighty breed, and that proved her undoing. She hesitated as the first mabari charged her, and its powerful jaws latched onto her leg. She heard the bone snap, the leg threatening to buckle beneath her. She managed to skewer the dog with her blade, pivoting on her good leg to take a swing at the nearest archer. 

She could see Varric, coaxing sharp little barbs out of Bianca, but the dwarf would be no help to her. He refused to even consider wearing armor, which meant unless he stayed far at the back of any battle, he was often in danger. Isabela didn’t like to wear armor, either, but you couldn’t keep her out of the thick of battle. She relied on speed and misdirection to protect herself. She was a blur of motion, whirling and stabbing with her daggers, but she was surrounded by mabari, which moved as fast as she did.

Hawke put up an arm to deflect another mabari, only to have its strong jaws close on her arm. It set its feet, pulling at her.

Above the din of battle, she heard Fenris’s hoarse voice call her name. Their eyes met, but before he could move toward her, he was attacked by another Dog Lord. 

She couldn’t see what was happening to him, she couldn’t stand against the insistent pressure of the mabari pulling at her arm, her leg wasn’t holding. Suddenly there was an explosion of pain as an arrow embedded itself in her lower back. The distraction was enough to give the mabari the advantage, and Hawke fell, the world going dark around her.

Hawke woke up looking at Anders’s serious face as he bent over her abdomen. She took a moment to watch him, wishing he could always be like this. When he was at the business of healing, he was always more calm and confident, more of what he must have been like before he merged with Justice. 

“Ah, you’re awake,” he said. “That battle did quite a number on you. What happened?”

“They had mabari.”

Anders chuckled, an increasingly rare sound. “Say no more. I’m from Ferelden, too, you know. Those Dog Lords give us all a bad name.” 

“What about the others?” Hawke asked, not wanting to mention Fenris by name.

“Fine. Your elf refused treatment, but from a cursory glance, it seems he’ll live.”

Hawke sat up, ignoring the twinges in stomach, back, and leg. 

“Did I say you could get up?”

“I feel fine.”

“All right, you can go. I won’t even waste my breath warning you to get some rest, since I know you won’t listen.”

“Thanks, Anders. You know, you should come out with us sometime.”

The tension returned to his face. “Maybe.”

Outside the clinic, she stopped short, seeing Isabela perched precariously on a railing, Varric polishing Bianca’s stock, and Fenris leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. A bandage was tied around his upper arm. All three of them looked her over with relief.

“What’s this? Are you all my babysitters?”

“Fine thanks we get for carrying you here,” Varric said.

“You carried me?” Hawke tried to picture that and couldn’t.

“Well, not exactly,” Varric said uncomfortably, his eyes darting to Fenris, who scowled.

“Oh. Uh, thanks, then.” 

“Let’s go,” Isabela said, hopping down. “I want to get to the hat shop before it closes.”

“Another hat, Rivaini? You don’t even wear them.”

“It’s a collection, Varric.”

Hawke walked slowly down the steps outside the clinic, trying to minimize how much her wounds still bothered her. She stumbled at the top of the second set of stairs, and from behind her she heard Fenris growl. “You should be more careful,” he snapped. “You could have been killed!”

She turned around, frowning at him. “I was distracted by the dogs. It won’t happen again.”

“It had better not.”

“Since when is it your job to watch out for me?”

“It ought to be someone’s!” 

“If I recall correctly,” Hawke said, drawing on all her bitterness and hurt, “you rejected that responsibility.” She was aware of Varric and Isabela having stopped, of the rustling in the darkness that indicated the denizens of Darktown were watching, and of Anders, his arms folded forbiddingly, leaning in the doorway of his clinic. But it didn’t matter. If this was how she was going to get him to talk to her, she didn’t care who was watching. “Or was I just imagining that?”

“That is not the same thing!”

“Isn’t it? You had a chance to have a say in my actions, and you walked out on it.”

A muscle twitched in Fenris’s jaw, his lips twisting in anger. “I believe today has proven the wisdom of that decision. Do you not see how dangerous it is to be … distracted?”

“It doesn’t have to be that way, Fenris! All it takes is time to adjust …” 

Fenris reached out and poked her in the stomach, where the arrow had emerged. Hawke winced, and he moved closer, his voice low. “And if there is no time? What then? Could either of us live with the consequences?”

She didn’t want him to be right. Her heart said he wasn’t, but it had no proof with which to convince him. Right or wrong, though, it was such a relief to be arguing with him after nearly two months of careful politeness and biting back all the words she wanted to say. If she had to, Evelyn supposed she could live without the tender, exciting lover she had glimpsed so briefly; but this Fenris, the one who wasn’t afraid to call her out on a mistake and who gave as good as he got, this Fenris was essential. 

Seeing her hesitate, he continued in that same low voice, forcing the words out. “When my Master comes back, he will not hesitate to use any unusual attachment against me and anyone who stands in his way. Perhaps I should just go, before that occurs and I become a danger to you.”

“No! You damn stubborn elf, you are a free man! You have nothing to fear from him!”

“Venhedis, woman! Do you really think it is that simple? While he lives, I am not free.” His green eyes met hers squarely, his voice dropping even further. “As long as Danarius exists, I do not have myself to give. If you cannot understand that, and accept it, I cannot stay.”

Evelyn pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. “Very well,” she said in a small voice. “If that’s the way you want it.”

“That is the way it has to be.” He stalked off into the darkness. The shadowy residents of Darktown dispersed, Anders took his disapproval back into his clinic. As Hawke moved toward Varric, Isabela melted away into the shadows.

“Walk you home?” Varric asked gently.

“Please.”

“Make a heck of a story, the two of you—“

“Varric.”

“Just kidding. Besides, I’ll have my hands full rewriting Aveline’s story. ‘Happy in Hightown’ just doesn’t have the same ring.”

“I love you, Varric.”

He was shocked into silence for a moment, then gave a suspiciously faint chuckle. “Warn me before you do that next time—it’s a nightmare getting water spots out of this coat.” 

It was hard to tell the time of day in Darktown, so Hawke was surprised to walk out into the golden light of late afternoon. She must have been on Anders’s table for quite some time. 

As she and Varric walked through Hightown, they met the young Templar Trevor. “Serah, you’ll never guess! I’ve met her! I’ve met Susannah!”

Hawke regarded him indulgently. “Is she everything you imagined?”

“And more!”

“Worth getting killed over?”

“Worth … anything. She is beautiful, and perfect, and … and perfect!”

“Somebody get that boy a thesaurus,” Varric muttered. 

“Good luck,” Hawke said, shaking her head, but Trevor wasn’t listening. His eyes were filled with stars, and could see nothing else. With a blissful grin on his face, he walked off through the square. Hawke went straight to bed, asleep before she could even pull up the covers.

She was awakened in the middle of the night by someone banging on her bedroom door. Groggily, she staggered across the room to open it, startled to see Aveline’s anxious face.   
“Aveline? What’s wrong? Did Donnic do something?” She’d kill him if he broke Aveline’s heart.

“No, Donnic is … fine,” Aveline said, her features softening. She handed a note to Hawke. “This is from the Viscount, he said for your eyes only, and as fast as possible.”

Hawke took the note, breaking the seal and hastily scanning the contents. “The damned fool!” she said. “Saemus Dumar has converted to the Qun; he’s at the Qunari compound. The Viscount requests we go get him.”

“As if we don’t have enough troubles with the Qunari,” Aveline snapped. “Couldn’t he have waited and just gone with them when they left?”

“If they ever leave,” Hawke said. “Come on; we’ll collect Fenris and Varric on the way.”

At the docks, she climbed the steps to the gates of the Qunari compound. A large guard barred her way. “Serah Hawke. It is late.”

“I must see the Arishok. It’s very important.” 

“For you, he might make an exception.” The guard stepped aside. 

The Arishok was sitting on his throne, as always. His shoulders seemed more slumped than usual. Earlier that week, the delegation the Qunari had sent to the Viscount as a peace offering had been captured and murdered by Chantry fanatics. Hawke wondered how the Arishok felt about that, if he grieved for them, but she didn’t understand the Qun well enough to know.

“Serah Hawke,” the Arishok said wearily. “I can imagine why you are here.”

“Then you know Saemus can’t stay.”

“The boy made his own choice. I have asked no bas to find the truth of the Qun; but I will not stand in the way of those who do. If his father regrets the choice, that is the father’s privilege.”

“It isn’t that simple. We both know that. Saemus will be used as a symbol, to divide Kirkwall. Much damage will come from this. You have to let him go.”

“He is not a prisoner; he is a follower of the Qun. Even if I wished to, I cannot change what is in the heart of another.” The Arishok waved a hand impatiently. “This is a pointless conversation. You know the boy is not here.”

“He’s not?”

“A note arrived from his father; the boy has gone to the Chantry to meet him. A last vain attempt to halt the conversion, no doubt.”

“The Chantry?” Aveline said. “The Viscount wouldn’t have chosen to conduct such a personal conversation there.”

“But we know who would,” Fenris said grimly.

“Mother Petrice,” Hawke said. They had run into the Chantry zealot several times, none of them ending well. Most recently, she had been behind the murders of the Qunari delegation. “We have to hurry!”

“Hawke.” 

She stopped, turning back to the Arishok.

“The Qun allows only one response to this woman’s persistent meddling. If you do not take care of it … I will.”

“Understood.” 

The Chantry was silent and deserted at this hour. As Hawke walked up the aisle, she saw a figure kneeling before the statue of Andraste, and she breathed a sigh of relief, running up the stairs toward him. “Saemus!” she said, touching him on the shoulder.

Only then did she realize that she was too late. His head slumped to the side, his body falling over.

“Serah Hawke. Look what you have done.” 

Hawke stood up, wiping tears off her face. “Petrice. Somehow I knew you were behind this.”

“Saemus Dumar comes to the Chantry to repent and is murdered in the very sight of Andraste by the Qunari’s pet mercenary. What will the Grand Cleric think? What will the Viscount think?”

“The Qunari had no reason to murder Saemus. He was an enthusiastic believer. The only person who could have wanted that sweet boy dead was you.”

“And who do you think will believe that?” 

From her vantage point, Hawke had seen the quiet figure coming down the steps before Petrice could. “She might,” Hawke said, gesturing toward the Grand Cleric.

“Your Grace, see what has been done here by these heretics! Andraste’s home defiled!” 

Grand Cleric Elthina surveyed the scene with her strange, almost white eyes, but said nothing.

“Your Grace,” Hawke said, stepping forward and bowing. “This is none of my doing, nor that of the Qunari. It is the product of Mother Petrice’s obsession. You must stop her before she brings the wrath of the Qunari down upon us all. If she succeeds in moving them to attack, countless numbers of people will die.”

Elthina nodded, her face expressionless. “The young mother’s enthusiasm has led her astray. The courts will decide her culpability. And her punishment.”

“Your Grace!” cried Petrice, stricken, but Elthina didn’t respond. The Grand Cleric turned and slowly began to climb the stairs again. Petrice turned back toward Hawke. “You and your kind are an affront to the Maker! He will punish you for this.” That she had more to say was clear, but she never got the chance. An arrow sped across the room, embedding itself deep in Petrice’s chest. The Mother fell to her knees, and Hawke whipped around to look for the source of the arrow.

A Qunari stood there, his bow still poised. Hawke began to pull her sword, but her eye caught Fenris’s, where her companions stood in the shadows not far from the Qunari, and the elf shook his head. Hawke let the sword slide back into its scabbard as the Qunari took careful aim. A second arrow took Petrice square in the forehead.

The Qunari placed the bow on his back and turned to Hawke. “The Qun has been satisfied. For now.” He left without another word.

Hawke’s eyes turned back to the Grand Cleric, who had paused on the stairs. With no change in expression, Elthina said, “Bring the Viscount here, Serah Hawke. Immediately.”

Between Hawke and Aveline, they managed to apprise the Viscount of what had occurred before they got him back to the Chantry. He rushed to his son, cradling Saemus in his arms. Hawke had to look away, the Viscount’s grief too personal to be watched. 

Viscount Dumar’s voice stopped her as she began to walk away. “Could this have been prevented, Hawke?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”

“My son dead; the Qunari an immovable fixture in my city; the Chantry’s very representatives stooping to treachery and deceit,” the Viscount whispered. “I am an old man, Hawke. Too old, perhaps. I simply do not know what to do. Or why. What purpose is there now?” He held Saemus more tightly, his shoulders shaking with the violence of his sobs.

Hawke was too tired to weep any further. She wanted nothing more than to go home.

The sun was up when they came out of the Chantry; their presence had been required for hours. Once the Viscount and the Grand Cleric had taken Saemus’s body to be prepared for his pyre, Aveline and her guards had taken over with the official investigation under the leadership of Seneschal Bran. He’d been all business as he questioned Hawke, which was fine with her. She was too tired to handle any romantic complications right now.

Now they walked across the cobblestones of Hightown, none of them speaking. The hustle and bustle of the day washed over them, most people going about their usual business. Only a few whispered in hushed voices about Saemus Dumar; his death wasn’t yet common knowledge.

Hawke was nearly asleep on her feet by the time they reached her door. She called to the others to sleep well as she let herself into the house. Her heart sank when she saw her Uncle Gamlen pacing up and down, barking questions at Bodahn and Sandal.

“Evelyn!” Gamlen snapped. “Where is your mother?”

“I don’t know. Why should I?”

“She was supposed to meet me at my house—we were to have lunch—and she never arrived.”

“We’ve been trying to tell you, Gamlen!” Bodahn said, looking harassed.

“Well, then, she went out,” Hawke said. “What’s the problem?”

“We agreed to meet, Evelyn. Have you ever known your mother to miss a commitment?”

It was true; her mother was fanatical about punctuality and being where you said you were going to be.

“Did she say she was coming back, Bodahn?”

“No, serah. She got the lilies, and read the note, and—“

“Lilies?” Hawke felt suddenly chilled. “What lilies?”

Bodahn pointed to the bouquet of white lilies behind him. “Lovely, aren’t they? Must have cost a pretty penny, what with the—“

“Get the others, Bodahn. All of them. Now.”


	24. All That Remains

Gamlen paced up and down in front of the fireplace. “Tell me about the flowers, Evelyn.”

“There’s a killer in Kirkwall. He sends women white lilies the day he takes them,” she said. Her mind was racing, trying to see where she’d gone wrong. She’d killed this murderer, she’d been sure of it. Gascard DuPuis had vials of blood, he had women’s clothes, he was a blood mage … he must have been the killer! She’d been concerned when Emeric, the Templar who had investigated the murders before she’d gone after DuPuis, was found dead in an alley. Why hadn’t she acted on that suspicion, gone looking for whatever information Emeric may have left behind? She’d been so sure DuPuis was the one … 

“Why would you think he would take Leandra? Your mother is hardly young.”

“He doesn’t care how old they are. Ninette was in her late thirties, the mage Mharen older than that.” At Gamlen’s mystified look, she clarified the names. “Women who were taken by this monster.”

“Why didn’t you do something about it?” Gamlen demanded, crossing his arms and glaring at her.  
Bodahn came back in, panting, before she could answer. “I found them … messere. They hadn’t … gone far.” Behind him were Fenris, Aveline, and Varric. Evelyn could have thrown her arms around all three of them, it was such a relief to have their solid presence here. 

“Your mother, Hawke?” Varric asked. “Bodahn said she was taken?” His eyes moved to the lilies and he blanched. “You killed that guy!”

“I thought so.” Hawke’s voice caught in her throat, her vision blurring, and she turned away to compose herself. She didn’t see Fenris start forward toward her or Aveline’s hand grasping his arm to pull him back.

“Bodahn, did you say there was a note? Did you see what she did with it?” Aveline asked.

“No, Captain. I didn’t see. I’m so sorry, messere,” he said, turning to Hawke with stricken eyes.

“This isn’t your fault, Bodahn,” Hawke said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t think that it is. No one could have taken better care of Mother than you have.” This was her fault; her mother had been her responsibility. They had all been her responsibility, Bethany, Carver, and Mother; her father had made her promise to look out for them. She’d lost her brother and sister; she’d be damned if she’d lose her mother, too. “Let’s go,” she said abruptly.

“Where?” Aveline asked, surprised.

“The foundry,” Fenris answered, his green eyes steady on Hawke’s face.

Hawke nodded. “It’s the best lead we have—we know he used to use that foundry for … whatever he does.” She swallowed, trying to stave off the nausea she felt at the idea of her mother in the hands of the killer. “Gamlen, why don’t you go back to your house, in case she comes there.” Her uncle nodded, and Hawke looked at her servants, all of them looking lost and frightened. “The rest of you, stay here in case she comes back. Bodahn, send messages to the others, have them start asking around, tell them to come here with anything they find out.” Isabela knew Lowtown, Anders knew Darktown, Sebastian knew Hightown, and Merrill often stumbled onto things. Between them all, they should be able to find out something. She patted Bodahn on the shoulder. “We’ll be back … as soon as we can.”

There wasn’t much talk as they hurried through the bustle of Hightown and into Lowtown. People were beginning to talk of the death of Saemus Dumar, an event Hawke recalled as though it had happened a long time ago. She was shocked to think that it had been less than twelve hours since she’d found Saemus dead in the Chantry. But there was no room in her right now for sorrow over the innocent, idealistic boy killed to satisfy some woman’s idea of the love of the Maker. All she could think of was getting to the foundry, and praying that her mother would be there when she did.

The foundry looked as deserted as always, graffiti painted on the rusted metal door and garbage littering the steps. A vision of Ninette’s severed hand floated in Hawke’s head, and she couldn’t hold back the vomit, turning to the side and letting it splatter on the wall. She heaved for a few moments before the paroxysm passed. “Sorry.”

“Actually, it’s very artistic,” Varric said, proffering a handkerchief. “A scintillating commentary on life in Lowtown.” He smiled at her, but his eyes were sympathetic.

Warmth filled her, affection for this great-hearted dwarf who had inserted himself in her life like he was always meant to be there. “Thanks,” she said, taking the handkerchief.

“Anytime.”

The foundry door opened easily, and Hawke led the others inside. Their footsteps echoed on the old stone floors, the place looking cavernous and empty. Hawke felt panic crawling inside her. What if she’d been wrong? She’d have wasted all this time, and where would she go next?

“We found the bag of body parts up there,” Fenris said, pointing to a catwalk at the top of a flight of rickety steps. 

“He’s right,” Aveline said. “We need to do a thorough search. This is our best lead; there must be some clues here.”

Hawke nodded, grateful for them, before making her way up the steps. They found spots of blood starting at the top of the stairs and leading in a trail to a trapdoor in the corner. “This wasn’t here before,” Hawke said. Her mother was down there. Some deep-seated instinct made her certain of it.

“He didn’t even try to hide it,” Aveline said.

“He knows we’re coming,” Fenris responded.

The implication was clear in their voices—trap!—but Hawke couldn’t stop to worry about that. “I’m coming, Mother,” she whispered, opening the hatch and starting down the steps that led deep into the earth. 

Shades were waiting for them at the bottom of the steps. Hawke welcomed the rush of adrenaline that shot through her as she whirled, her blade striking three of them at once. Was this all he had? He’d underestimated her.

Even the rage demon that rose growling from the floor couldn’t slow her down. She screamed as she attacked it, her blade sending up a shower of sparks as it passed through the demon’s flaming body.

As it disappeared the way it came, leaving nothing but a pile of glowing coals where it had been, Hawke saw the flicker of its light gleam off something white in the corner. She pulled a torch down from the wall, holding it before her, illuminating the short hair of the woman who lay crumpled on her side in the corner with her back to Hawke. The woman was wearing a dress that looked similar in color and pattern to her mother’s favorite. “Mother!” Hawke called, eager and afraid at the same time to roll the body over. Would she be alive?

Her heart sank as she recognized the blonde woman who had been in DuPuis’ home. There was a great splotch of red on the chest of the body, where her breasts had been removed, and Hawke fought against the urge to vomit again. “Find something to cover her with,” she said, and the others scattered. Varric brought a large piece of burlap, and Hawke laid it reverently over the dead woman’s face. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, a tear falling on the filthy cloth. “I thought I’d saved you.” She blinked the tears away, turning toward the dark passage. With the torch held high above her head, she moved slowly into the blackness, watching the circle of ground the torch lit around her feet for any clues, anything that would tell her something. 

“Hawke.” She stopped, turning around as Aveline came up to her, a torn piece of paper in her hand. “He says here something about using quicklime on the feet. As a preservative?”

“What did he want to preserve feet for? What is he doing to these women?” 

“Let’s go find out,” Fenris said.

Hawke nodded, turning back to the tunnel. Just as she reached the entrance to a large room, something shone in the dirt at her feet. She picked it up, turning it over in her hand. The gleam off the gold locket struck her like a large hammer in the chest. It took everything she had to breathe.

“What is it?” Aveline looked over Hawke’s shoulder and winced.

“It’s Mother’s,” Evelyn said, her chin trembling. “She— She would never have taken it off. Not willingly. Maker, Aveline!”

“I know. Let’s hurry.” Her friend’s voice was gentle but urgent.

Hawke ran ahead into a large brightly lit room. It looked almost homey, with a bed and chairs and scattered piles of paper everywhere. It was better appointed than Fenris’s mansion. The normalcy of the room, just as if the monster who had taken her mother was ready to come back and put on his slippers and go to bed to take someone else’s mother tomorrow, made Hawke tremble with anger and fear. 

“He lives here,” Varric said. The silence after he spoke was heavy with the jokes he wasn’t voicing. She almost wished he would; the dwarf’s uncharacteristic quiet was almost as frightening as the pictures her mind kept painting of what must be happening to her mother.

Hawke walked across the room, peering at the portrait mounted above the fireplace. “That—That—“

“It looks like Leandra,” Aveline said, joining the others in pawing through the pile of books and papers, looking for any information they could use.

“What is going on here?” Hawke said. “What is he doing?”

“Blood magic,” said Fenris, lifting a book off the ground.

“This is on necromancy,” Aveline said, reading over his shoulder.

“Raising the dead? Why does he need so many women?”

Varric was flipping through a leather-bound journal. “It says something here about searching for ‘that face’.” He looked at Hawke. 

“We should move on. Now,” Fenris said. 

Hawke dropped a note she’d picked up, written by someone named “O” and referring to books stolen from the Gallows on behalf of someone named Quentin. Was that his name, the monster who had her mother? “Yes.” She lifted the torch higher, moving farther down the tunnels. At the bottom of a set of stairs, they came to another large room, this one more laboratory than living space, and reeking of chemicals and decay. A man in mage robes was bending over a chair, its high back facing them so they couldn’t see who was in it. He stood up as Hawke came toward him. 

“I was wondering when you would show up,” he said, coming toward Hawke. A sneer curled his lip. “Leandra was so certain you would come for her.”

“If you’ve hurt my mother, I’ll kill you,” Hawke said, fighting to keep the terror out of her voice. The others emerged from the stairwell, arranging themselves behind her.

“I thought you might say something like that,” the mage said. “You will never understand my purpose. Your mother was chosen because she is special. So special,” he whispered, his icy blue eyes lit from within. “Now she is part of something greater.”

“Spare me the demented rambling. Where. Is. She?!”

An unpleasant smile crossed the mage’s face. “You’re just in time. She’s here, waiting for you.” He turned, walking back to the chair. Hawke’s hand stole toward the hilt of her sword. The mage looked down at whoever was sitting there. “Do you know what the greatest force in the universe is?” He raised his eyes, looking straight at Hawke. “Love.”

She watched in disgusted fascination, gripping the sword, as the mage stepped back from the chair and the figure in it stood up. “I found her eyes, her skin, her delicate fingers. At last, I found her face. That beautiful face. I’m sure you recognize it.”

Hawke was frozen with horror. It was her mother’s face, but grey and corpse-like and empty. The eyes were not her mother’s familiar blue, but grey, clouded and unfocused. She—it—wore a tattered and yellowed wedding gown, with an ancient veil hanging around the face like a forgotten cobweb. It moved toward Hawke with strange, jerky movements like that of a marionette. 

“ _Venhedis_.”

“Maker’s breath.”

“Oh, Leandra.”

Her friends’ voices barely registered in Hawke’s brain. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the thing with her mother’s face. 

“No force on this earth will part us again,” the mage said. “Not even you.” He threw a forcefield up around himself and the creature, and the ground erupted with corpses and shades.

Hawke drew her sword and swung at the nearest corpse, putting every ounce of her frustration and anger and grief into the strike. Bones flew across the room, splintering against the wall. She ran forward with a scream, slicing the greatsword into the body of a shade. Bianca’s martial song rang in her ears. Fenris was at her side, his markings glowing as they swung their blades in practiced concert. Aveline bashed a skeleton, caving in its ribcage, and slashed its head off with her sword. 

The waves of them seemed endless. Hawke hacked and slashed and swung, sweat pouring down her face and her arms beginning to feel like rubber. There were arrows embedded in pieces of her armor, a burn on her face, and inky black goo in her hair. The others didn’t look any better, their faces filthy and exhausted in the flickering torchlight. 

“Do you yield?” came the mage’s voice across the storm of battle. “Leave me with my bride, and I will let you and your friends go free.” 

“I’ll see you in the Black City before I leave my mother with you!” Hawke shouted.

The moment’s respite and the mage’s colossal gall had reenergized all of them. Even Bianca’s bolts looked shinier as she and Varric focused on the shades. The three warriors’ blades moved as one, chopping the skeletons to pieces as they came. Another wave was in front of them as they moved across the room. The sword had never felt so heavy in Hawke’s hands, but she kept hearing the mage’s voice in her head. “Leandra was so certain you would come for her,” he had said. Hawke had been too late to save her mother, but she was damned if she was going to leave what remained in the hands of this filthy butcher of a mage. The determination gave her new strength, and she whipped the blade around, popping the skulls off two skeletons at once and watching as they flew through the air, through the mage’s fading shield. Finally, they had outlasted him. 

“If you kill me, she dies, too,” the mage said, cowering before Hawke’s blade with one arm raised. “I’ve gone through so much to find her again.”

“Your wife is dead. So is my mother. Along with countless other women. Now you can join them!” Hawke practically screamed the last words, hurling her sword like a javelin. It speared through the mage’s chest, knocking his body backward and spearing him against the wall.

The body with her mother’s face moved toward Hawke in slow, halting steps, collapsing into her arms. Hawke sank to her knees, cradling what was left of her mother. “Mother,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Mother, can you hear me?”

“I … knew you’d come.” It was her mother’s voice, a faint whisper. Hawke bent her head closer to the body, straining to hear. 

“You know me,” she said, straining for her usual lightness. “I always save the day.” Her eyes burned, dry and hot.

“That man would have kept me trapped in here. You have set me free—free to be with Father, and with Carver. But you … you’ll be alone.” 

“I should have been here. I failed you, Mother, and I failed Father.”

“My little girl … so strong. I love you … I’ve … always been so … proud …” The voice trailed away. 

Hawke bent over the body in her arms. “Mother!” she cried, shaking the body as though somehow that would bring her mother back. But it wouldn’t. All that remained of her mother was gone.


	25. Not While I'm Around

Evelyn didn’t know how long she’d remained crouched on the ground cradling the grotesque body in her arms. None of the others had moved or spoken, and she was grateful to them for the silence, because her mind was a clean, quiet space and she wanted to keep it that way. If she let sound and color in, she’d have to think about what had happened, and she wasn’t ready for that.

Instead, she began making an orderly list in her head of what needed to be done. “Varric, go back to that … room and find out the names of the other women he did this to.”

“Right.”

Slowly, not letting go of the last vestiges of her mother, Hawke got to her feet, Aveline’s steadying hands helping her retain her balance. The body was remarkably light in Hawke’s arms. Her mother had never been a very substantial woman, she thought, but there had been more to her than this. Evelyn swallowed hard, her throat swollen and aching. She couldn’t give way yet; there was too much to do. Later, she promised herself. Later, with Bethany, then she could cry.

She moved like a mindless golem back through the tunnels of the blood mage’s lair, only vaguely aware of someone holding a torch up so she could see. Aveline assisted again as Hawke carefully moved her precious burden through the trap door into the foundry, but Hawke couldn’t accept help carrying her mother, not even from her oldest friend. 

Hawke blinked as she emerged from the foundry, her eyes watering as the light outside stung them. It had been morning when they went inside; was it really only late afternoon now? Her legs moved as if of their own volition, step by step through Lowtown. She didn’t pay any attention to the stares of the people she passed or their shocked questions. 

Lowtown, she thought. There was something important she needed to do in Lowtown. Hawke racked her brain, her thoughts moving sluggishly.

“Aveline?”

“Yes, Hawke.”

“Go get my uncle, please. Tell him … tell him gently. Bring him to the Chantry.”

“The Chantry?”

“For … services.” That was what you did with a dead person, wasn’t it? You took them to the Chantry, where they were given a pyre and seen off on their way to the Maker. 

“Of course,” Aveline said.

As she moved up the steps from Lowtown into Hightown, Sebastian came running down them toward her. “Hawke! Oh, Hawke, I’m so sorry,” he said. “Here, let me help you.” He reached for the body’s legs.

She shook her head mutely.

The prince nodded, his hand falling. “Of course. I’ll … go on ahead to the Chantry, Hawke, is that all right?”

She nodded. It would be easier if they were expecting the body.

Merrill was the next to appear, her eyes wide and sad. 

Hawke looked away from the tender concern on the elf’s face. “Merrill, can you go to my house and tell Bodahn and Orana and Sandal what happened? Bring them to the Chantry?”

“As you wish, lethallan.” 

How far was the damned Chantry, anyway? Her arms were burning, the weight no longer light. It occurred to her that she had left her sword behind, stuck through that dead mage’s chest cavity. She couldn’t go back for it. Maybe whoever Aveline detailed to go clean up that Maker-forsaken place would retrieve it for her.

Reaching the Chantry steps at last, Hawke paused at the bottom, taking deep breaths. It was almost over. In a few moments she could relinquish this burden, let someone else take it over. She just needed to make it up the stairs.

Slowly, her leg muscles screaming, she took the first step.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Fenris followed Hawke up the steps, but not too closely. Her unseeing eyes, her unaccustomed silence, her dogged insistence on carrying that monster’s creation herself made him feel useless, and he fought the feeling by stationing himself between her and the bystanders who watched and questioned, glaring at them until they turned away and went about their business. The stained blade he carried, which he had wrenched from the wall when it became clear Hawke had forgotten it, went a long way toward fending off unwanted curiosity.

He knew this was something she had to do. More, whatever right he could have claimed to help her now had been lost when he fled her bedroom in the dark of night to escape his own demons, demons he hadn’t been strong enough to face. That he thought she was better off without him didn’t matter—she needed someone today, someone who would watch out for her, and Fenris had ruined any chance that she might let him be for her what she was for all of them.  
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Hawke laid the body tenderly on the pyre. Her arms felt empty without it. She stepped back, allowing the priestesses to anoint the body with the sacred oil in preparation for its final journey to the Maker. It didn’t occur to her to wonder how space had been cleared in the normally bustling Chantry; she was just grateful to be able to turn the burden over to those whose job it was to care for it.

Gamlen stepped up next to her. “What did that bastard do to her?”

“See for yourself, Uncle.”

“Where were you? Why weren’t you with her?”

She shook her head, too drained to argue. “I don’t know. I should have been. I’m sorry.”

“Hmph. I suppose you did the best you could, at that, girl,” Gamlen said. “Leandra was always stubborn, couldn’t tell her anything she didn’t want to hear.”

“Thank you for watching out for her, Uncle.” Gamlen had at least made an effort to spend time with her mother once a week, Hawke thought, which was more than she had done. If she had, would her mother still be alive?

“I assume you killed him.”

“I did.”

“Good.”

They stood side-by-side, watching as the priestesses lit their torches, taking their places around the pyre. Leandra’s body was in the second most elaborate pyre chamber; Saemus Dumar’s remains were in the first, waiting for the grand ceremony that would be conducted tomorrow before all of Kirkwall. Hawke didn’t mind. Leandra had a lot of acquaintances in Kirkwall, but no one had been particularly close to her. Orana was the closest; the little elf stood weeping behind Hawke, trying to muffle her tears in a handkerchief. Sandal stood next to her, his bright blue eyes dim with unhappiness, and Bodahn, the wrinkles in his face more apparent than they had been yesterday, patted Orana on the arm in an attempt to comfort her.

Sebastian moved around the priestesses, overseeing the final preparations. Aveline and Varric and Fenris stood solidly behind Hawke, with Isabela, Anders, and Merrill farther back, in the shadows, none of them entirely comfortable being in the Chantry. Bethany was the only one missing, but the Templars would never let her out of the Gallows for a funeral. Hawke would go there next. Part of her longed for the comfort of her sister’s presence; part of her dreaded having to break the news to Bethany. 

“Hawke, I understand there are … parts of more than one woman here?” Sebastian asked, wincing as he said it. “Do you know the other women’s names?”

Varric handed over the list he had made.

“They should all—all be commended to the Maker,” Hawke said. 

Sebastian nodded. “Their souls will be at rest.”

Privately, Hawke wasn’t at all certain the women’s souls would be able to rest after what had been done to their bodies, but she would make the gesture on the women’s behalf.

A priestess took her place in front of the pyre, taking the list from Sebastian. “We are assembled today to see these souls safely to the Maker. Holy Andraste, we commend Ninette de Carrac, Mharen Darani, Alessa Robillard, Beatrice deCroix, Jane Templeton, Devere Suliaris, and Leandra Hawke to your care. Guide them to the Maker’s side and do not let them linger in the Fade.”

The priestesses sang the Canticle of Andraste as they circled the body, touching their torches to places on the pyre. The fire leaped up, the flames licking at the brittle, ancient wedding gown. Hawke suddenly wished she knew the name of the mage’s dead wife—surely her soul deserved to go to the Maker as well. The smoke rose from the pyre, sweet-smelling from the oil, and Hawke imagined her mother flying up with it, up to where her father and Carver waited for her. For a brief moment, she envied her mother, approaching the secure embrace of family, her earthly troubles behind her. 

Next to her, Gamlen snuffled, tears coursing down his face. Gamlen had seen his whole family pass, as well, and had stood it better than could have been expected, Hawke thought. She resolved to try to maintain ties with her uncle; they were all each other had left, really.

The flames were obscuring her mother’s face now, and Hawke turned away, not wanting to see the last of her mother consumed. She put a hand on Gamlen’s shoulder, and he covered it with his own. After a moment, she took her hand away and left the Chantry, leaving Gamlen there, flanked by the servants, to wait for the end. Her people followed her out, the weight of their concern heavy on her shoulders. She needed to be away from that scrutiny, even if just for a moment.

“Going to the Gallows?” Aveline asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, Aveline, thank you. I need to do this on my own.” 

“But, Hawke …”

“Go back to Donnic, Aveline. This … I have to talk to Bethany by myself.” Hawke looked at the circle of concerned faces. She appreciated them, but she also felt pressured by them to conform to their expectations of how she should feel and act. She thought of her sister. Bethany would understand, she was sure. “All of you, thank you for being here. But … I need some time to myself for now.”

“All right, Hawke,” Aveline said. “As you wish.” She squeezed Hawke’s shoulder before moving down the steps of the Chantry. 

Anders and Merrill turned, also, after sad, helpless glances at Hawke. 

“Sweet thing,” Isabela murmured affectionately. She threw her arms around Hawke, who stood frozen in surprise, awkwardly patting Isabela’s back. Hiding her face, the pirate turned and ran down the steps. 

“I could go along, for … entertainment,” Varric offered.

“Thanks, Varric, but no.”

“Hanged Man later?”

She shook her head, looking down into his dear face. “Come by tomorrow afternoon, though, will you? I think I’ll be needing a laugh about then.”

“I will do my humble best.” With a last glance, he, too, headed down the stairs.

Hawke looked around for Fenris, but he was nowhere to be seen. His absence, and the fact that he’d left without speaking to her, stung, but there was relief in it, as well. If he’d stopped to say something, she might have asked him to come with her, and she wasn’t about to admit how much she wanted him to. Her heart heavy, she trudged down the steps, turning toward the Gallows.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Fenris emerged from the shadows, relieved she hadn’t noticed him. He had no intention of leaving her alone and undefended on the way to the Gallows, no matter what she said she wanted, but he knew better than to argue with her. If she specifically desired him to go, he didn’t want to hear that, either. She had been there for him, for all of them, whenever she was needed; he would be there for her today, even if that wasn’t what she said she wanted. 

He followed her at a discreet distance, still carrying her blade.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
“Serah Hawke, I am so sorry to hear your sad news,” Knight-Captain Cullen said, when she had finished her explanation of why she needed to see her sister. “It is disheartening, after all the efforts we go to in an attempt to keep Kirkwall safe, to hear that blood mages still threaten our population.”

If only he knew, she thought. Kirkwall seemed to be swarming with apostates, most of whom seemed to have little compunction about turning to demons or blood magic at the first sign of trouble. “I appreciate your sympathy,” she said. “Can I see my sister? I don’t want her hearing of this from someone else.”

He nodded. “I believe we can make an exception in this case. I will have your sister meet you in our dining hall—you will have privacy, since the meal is completed, but you won’t be so alone that someone might think you were plotting an escape.”

Hawke resisted the urge to roll her eyes. If she were plotting an escape, she could do it far better than this. “Thank you, serah.”

Cullen despatched a messenger to find Bethany, and escorted her to the dining hall himself. “My condolences again, Serah Hawke. When you are finished, Ser Hugh will see you out.” He motioned to a helmeted figure standing by the door. 

The Knight-Captain left the room, and Hawke waited, pacing impatiently. She couldn’t wait to see her sister, to hold Bethany and finally let loose the iron band that was squeezing her chest. Servants were moving about the tables, cleaning them off and resetting them for breakfast, and Hawke nearly ran into one as she paced. The servant gave her a look of wide-eyed alarm and scuttled away. Hawke supposed she did cut a frightening figure, her armor scorched, dented, and splattered with blood and the inky residue of shades. Would Bethany be similarly frightened by her? Perhaps she should have stopped to change.

“Sister?” Bethany’s tentative voice from the doorway startled her, and she spun around. 

“Bethany!”

“What— Why are you here? Is there something … Mother?” Bethany’s hand flew to her mouth as Hawke nodded. 

“I’m sorry, Bethany.”

“What happened?”

Slowly, Evelyn told her, leaving out as many of the gruesome details as she could and still have the story make sense. Bethany remembered the bag of women’s body parts they had found in that foundry years ago.

“Poor Mother! She must have been so frightened.” 

Evelyn shivered. She had been trying not to think of what her mother’s last moments must have been like as that dreadful mage performed his ritual on her. She couldn’t meet Bethany’s eyes—what if her sister blamed her, too? Why shouldn’t she? It had been Evelyn’s responsibility to care for both of them, and now Bethany was locked in the Tower alone and their mother was dead.

“At least you were there to save her soul, at the end,” Bethany whispered. “That’s what counts; that’s what we’ll have to cling to. You say the ceremony has already been conducted?” Evelyn nodded. “Then she’s with the Maker now, with Father and Carver.” 

She should be grateful her sister wasn’t angry, glad that Bethany wasn’t crumpling up in a heap, proud that her fragile sister was bearing up so well. Instead, Evelyn was confused and a little resentful that her sister was taking this so much better than she was. She had counted on Bethany to weep with her, to share her grief so that she could let go. But Bethany had made no move to embrace her. Perhaps that was a rule, Evelyn thought. Maybe mages weren’t allowed to touch other people. Still, she felt empty. Whatever relief she had expected wasn’t to be found here.

“Will you be all right, Sister? That big estate must seem so empty now.”

“Yes, I imagine it will.” Evelyn hadn’t thought about going home, how dark and quiet and abandoned the house would be, even with the servants. “What of you? Will you have someone to talk to here?”

“Oh, yes.” Bethany blushed a little. “I can’t tell you about him—he might lose his position if our relationship were known—but he is most sympathetic, and I’m sure will be a comfort to me. And you? Do you have someone? That elf, Fenris, did you and he ever …?”

“No.” Evelyn cut that line of questioning right off. If she thought of Fenris now, she really would give way, and the thought of weeping here, under the eyes of the Templars and with this stranger who had once been her sister, made her feel nauseous. “I … must go. They told me I couldn’t stay long,” she lied.

“Of course. Evelyn … take care of yourself.”

“You, too, Bethany.” Evelyn watched as her sister left the room, then turned to the Templar at the door. “I’m ready to go.”

“Yes, Serah.” Ser Hugh led her to the door of the Gallows, watching to be sure she left.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Fenris waited in the shadows as Hawke emerged from the Gallows, his heart constricting at the perplexed, bereft expression on her face. The meeting with her sister hadn’t gone as she had expected, that much was clear, and she appeared somewhat dazed. 

Every bit of her body language—the slump of her shoulders, her halting walk, the way her arms dangled limply at her sides—spoke of her exhaustion. He wondered how she was still on her feet. Fenris was tired, as well, after everything they had been through, and Hawke’s experiences had been far more emotionally draining than his. She should take better care of herself, he thought, but he knew she wouldn’t. She needed someone to step in and care for her now, but who would that be? Without her sister or her mother, she had no one to look after her. 

He slung her blade over his shoulder. While she had been in the Gallows, he had cleaned it thoroughly, removing every last vestige of the blood mage’s fluids from it. He may not have been able to do much else, but he could watch over her and be certain she made it safely back home.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
It felt as though it had taken her hours to reach Hightown. It was late, probably close to midnight, if Hawke had to guess, and despite the other houses around it, her own loomed over her, still and cold. It was amazing, she thought, how she could go days without seeing her mother and not notice it, but now that she knew her mother wasn’t there, she felt the absence like a physical pain. She crossed the courtyard slowly, each step an unwilling movement closer to having to resume her real life, knowing her mother wasn’t in it any longer.

“Evelyn, I came as soon as I could get away. Are you just returning home?” Seneschal Bran hurried toward her.

“Just now, yes. I haven’t been home since … this morning.”

“I can see that,” he said, glancing at her filthy armor. She was sure she looked a mess, her hair straggling across her face and blood and dirt streaking it. “Would you like me to come in with you? I could assist you with informing the servants and …”

“No. Thank you. The servants were at the ceremony earlier; they already know. I … It’s kind of you to offer.”

“Should you require anything, I am but a messenger away,” Bran said, taking her hand. 

Evelyn was surprised at the vehemence of her desire to snatch her hand away. She hadn’t thought of him all day; he didn’t seem to belong, somehow, not the way the others did. With a sudden burst of clarity, she realized that being alone in truth was better than being alone in her head with a man who didn’t understand her. “Bran, I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t be; you have had a horrifying day. You are distraught.”

She didn’t feel distraught. She didn’t feel anything, in fact. “You’re a very good man. But right now I don’t think I’m in any condition to be … involved with someone. I hope you can understand.”

“Perhaps you will feel differently tomorrow.” The sentence ended on a slight up-note, making it almost but not quite a question, and Evelyn shook her head firmly.

“I’m sorry.” She hesitated, then said, “Good luck to you.”

“And to you.” He bowed formally, turning to cross the courtyard.

Evelyn watched him until he was out of sight, feeling only a mild relief as she watched him go. Suddenly she shivered—spring might be on its way, but it wasn’t here yet, and she was chilled. She didn’t want to go inside and be warm and settle back into her comfortable life any more than she wanted to stay out here and be cold and continue to exist in this emotionless limbo. Leaning her head against the door, she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She reached for the doorknob and let herself inside.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Fenris stood watching Hawke’s door. He had seen her tremble as she leaned against the door, seen the small pause before she stepped inside, and he could only imagine how she must be feeling, alone there with only memories to speak to her. Orana would be crying, Bodahn and Sandal solicitously staying out of Hawke’s way. None of the rest of the team would come by, respecting Hawke’s request to leave her alone. But she didn’t need to be left alone; that was all too clear. She needed someone to come in and talk to her, take her mind off what had occurred long enough so that she could fall asleep. In her current mood, she would lie awake, tossing and turning and torturing herself, he was certain of it. 

He cursed himself again for having burnt that bridge so thoroughly. He had no right to go to her now, much as he longed to do so. Bran might have had a right, but she had sent Bran away. The Seneschal hadn’t looked happy as he left, and Fenris didn’t feel badly about that at all. Not one bit. But it still left him out here, and her in there …

“ _Fasta vas_!” What kind of coward was he, standing out here and leaving her to suffer? He may not be the lover he had wished to be, but he loved her, and tonight she needed someone who loved her.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he crossed the courtyard with firm steps, opening her door before he could reconsider.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Hawke sat perched on the edge of her bed, her hands clasped in front of her. She’d managed to get her armor off, leaving it in a pile outside to be cleaned, or burned, or thrown into the harbor, but she hadn’t had the energy to do anything more. Her hair hung around her face in dirty hanks, and she was still wearing the sweat-soaked undertunic and leggings she had worn since … well, she couldn’t quite remember how long ago she’d put them on. She knew she should get up, or call for a bath, or simply lie down and try to sleep, but she couldn’t summon the will to do so. 

When the door opened and closed again, she wasn’t surprised. Some part of her had known—hoped—he would come, despite everything she’d said. She didn’t turn her head, listening to the soft footfalls on the carpet.

He stopped halfway across the room. “I do not know what to say … but I am here.”

Hawke felt the tension begin to drain from her body, the iron band easing a little. “This was my fault. She was my responsibility, and I failed her.”

“If you are looking for forgiveness, you must look within yourself. You are the only one who can absolve you of this guilt.” He pulled a chair over, sitting down across from her. “For what it’s worth, your mother was a grown woman, responsible for herself.”

She shook her head. “I’ve always been the one. When the twins were born, I was six. My father brought me into the room, showed them to me, lying on the bed together. ‘These are your family,’ he said, ‘protect them.’ He gave me my first sword that day, a wooden practice sword. On his deathbed, he reminded me of that promise, and told me I had to look out for my mother now that he couldn’t anymore. I lost Carver to the ogre; I lost Bethany to the Circle; I lost my mother to …” She could only imagine what Fenris would say about the blood mage, and she couldn’t listen to that diatribe. “Please, don’t say anything about mages. Not tonight.”

“Of course not. Shall I tell you that your mother is in a better place?”

Hawke raised her head, looking into his green eyes for the first time. “Do you believe that?”

“It is what they say; perhaps it is better to believe that than to believe nothing. I don’t know, Hawke. It could be true.”

He had called her by her name … before. She found herself wishing he would do so again. Who would call her Evelyn now? Gamlen, she supposed. Otherwise, she was in danger of forgetting her name entirely. She shivered again, although the room was warm.

Fenris stood up, and Hawke felt a momentary panic. Was he leaving? What would she do if he left?

He went to the door, but didn’t open it. “I took the liberty of asking Bodahn to bring in the tub and some water. A bath will help. Also,” now he did open the door, reaching for something from outside, “I retrieved your sword and cleaned it for you.” He placed the sword on the brackets above the fireplace.

Her chin quivered, her eyes stinging. She wanted to thank him, but her throat was swollen with all the tears she hadn’t shed, and she could only nod. She watched quietly as Bodahn and Sandal brought in the tub and the buckets of hot water. The two dwarves glanced at her sympathetically, but didn’t say anything, for which she was grateful.

When they had left, Fenris came back to her, bending over and looking into her face. “Come,” he said. “While the water is still hot.”

She got up from the bed, walking woodenly toward the tub. Her legs felt like jelly, weak and wobbly.

“Do you require assistance?” Fenris asked.

Shameful though it was to admit, Hawke wasn’t sure she could lift her arms to take off the tunic, much less summon the energy to remove the rest of her clothes. She looked at Fenris, mute pleading in her eyes.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Fenris hated seeing her in this state. It was worse than he had expected; he was extremely glad he had come. No one else could have gotten her this far—she would have stiffened her back and pretended to be fine and sent them away. He found it surprisingly easy not to think of her naked body as he helped her strip her clothing off. Beautiful as she was, this was not the moment for carnal thoughts. He finished by removing the pins from her hair, taking down what hadn’t already fallen from her bun. He took her hand, helping her into the tub.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Hawke huddled in the water, shaking harder now. She couldn’t have washed her own hair if she’d wanted to. Fortunately, Fenris seemed perfectly willing to do so, deftly soaping and rinsing as though he did it all the time. It was a new side of him, one she would have cherished if she’d discovered it under other circumstances. Tonight, she could only be numbly thankful that he had come, relieving her of the necessity for thought or action. 

At last he seemed to think she was clean, producing one of her nightgowns from somewhere and helping her put it on. She was still shivering. Her throat ached, her eyes burned, the last of her defenses against what she had seen and done that day crumbling. And for the first time all day, she was with someone who wasn’t making demands of her, had no expectations of her, and didn’t need her strength to lean on. It was the last thing she needed to be able to let go of the rigid control she’d held her mind in. She saw her mother’s face on that grotesque body, and she couldn’t hold her sorrow back any longer.

“Oh, Maker! Mother,” she sobbed, feeling the sweet relief of her dry eyes flooding. Dimly through the haze of her tears Hawke was aware of Fenris drawing her close, of the familiar scent of leather and lyrium. Her arms stole around him, clinging, as she pressed her head against his shoulder and wept. 

It could have been minutes or hours that they stood there; she didn’t know and didn’t particularly care. She dried her eyes and blew her nose with a handkerchief he handed to her. “I’m all right now,” she said, her voice cracked from the intensity of her sobbing.

“You are not,” he said. “You need a good night’s sleep.”

Fear filled her. If he left her alone, she’d never be able to sleep, tired as she was. Too many images in her head, too many voices.

“Not to worry,” he said, responding to her anxious look. “I intend to stay and be certain that you get one. Come, Hawke.”

Passively, she allowed him to lead her to the bed, tucking the covers up around her. “Fenris?”

“Yes?”

“Will you … sometimes … call me Evelyn?”

Fenris looked at her, startled. 

“If you don’t, there’s only Gamlen. And that’s not right.”

He chuckled. “Very well. Evelyn.”

Hawke sighed with relief, sinking back against the pillows. But it was too quiet, her thoughts a cacophony. “Talk to me,” she said, blinking against more tears that burned her eyes.

Fenris didn’t know what to say; his small stock of platitudes had been used up already. Casting about, he saw a book lying on her desk. “Perhaps I could read to you, instead,” he said, lifting it up to check the title. _The Adventures of the Black Fox_. It seemed light enough to distract her without bringing up disturbing topics.

“Yes, please,” Hawke said, snuggling down under the blankets. She was warmer now, and clean, and sleepy, and she had Fenris’s beloved deep voice to fall asleep to. Tomorrow would be soon enough to pick up the guilt and the sorrow and the longing for things she didn’t have anymore. For tonight, she would sleep, safe in the knowledge that someone else could take care of things for a while.

Turning the book so it caught the candlelight better, Fenris continued reading, even after he heard the light, small snore that indicated Hawke had fallen asleep. He intended to be here all night, to ensure no demons haunted her sleep and no visitors, well-meaning or otherwise, disturbed her. Tomorrow they would be friends, and nothing more, as good sense and concern for her safety dictated. Tonight he could pretend to be free to be the man she needed.


	26. Viddathari

Things were quiet in Kirkwall for over a month. Hawke was glad for the peace. She spent hours working in her garden, the familiar energizing joy of helping things grow filling some of the space left behind by her mother’s passing. The others were devoted in their attentions, dropping by to help or to shoot the breeze, depending on their level of comfort with dirt. Fenris turned out to have a surprising aptitude for gardening, once he stopped being self-conscious about it. Hawke was aware that he was keeping an eye on her—the streets were unusually empty of mercenaries and brigands these days, and Fenris would often turn up wherever she was going, sweating and bloodied. The night he’d spent reading to her after her mother died was added to the list of things they didn’t talk about. 

Her feelings for him hadn’t faded—Evelyn knew she was recovering from her grief the first night she dreamt of Fenris touching her, and she occasionally caught a look in his eyes that said he hadn’t forgotten what that felt like—but she had her friend back. And that was enough, at least for now.

A note had come from Bethany, sorrowful but impersonal, along with official sympathies from Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino. Viscount Dumar had seen his son to the Maker in a ceremony Saemus would have utterly despised, and had promptly shut himself in his office, refusing to see anyone. Seneschal Bran appeared to be keeping the city on its feet. He hadn’t had time to come visit Hawke, even had he wanted to. She was glad she had broken things cleanly off between them—he was too much of a noble to have ever understood her, or she him, for that matter. 

On a sunny day in mid-Drakonis, Hawke had just finished collecting the raspberry canes she’d spent all morning pruning when Bodahn appeared in the garden. “Messere,” he said, his forehead creased with more worry lines than usual. “The Captain and, er, the Captain are here. They seem agitated.”

Bodahn’s formality could occasionally be confusing. ‘Captain’ could cover Aveline, Isabela, or Cullen, and probably a few other people Hawke couldn’t call immediately to mind. She sighed, stripping off her gardening gloves. Whoever they were, they could take her in the ripped and stained tunic she wore in the garden. 

Aveline was pacing in front of the fireplace, her arms folded, muttering to herself.   
Isabela’s voice came from the upper floor. “She’s not in bed, more’s the pity.”

“Do you think this is the time for your frivolity, whore?” Aveline snapped. She looked around as Hawke came in. “Thank the Maker. Hawke, I need your help.”

“Wait, Hawke, I have to tell you—“ Isabela started, running down the stairs.

“Not now!” Aveline snapped. “I have real problems, not the kind a strumpet like you runs into; ‘which rash is it this time’ and ‘who’s the father’!”

“Why, you!” Isabela lunged for the Guard-Captain.

Hawke stepped between the two, gently but firmly pushing them apart. “How about we take this one at a time,” she said. This kind of bickering she hadn’t missed. Not at all. “Aveline? Make it short, please.”

“Two elves murdered one of my guardsmen.” Aveline’s eyes flashed. “Wilhelm wasn’t much of a guardsman—he spent more time in the stockade than on patrol—but he was one of my men, and they killed him. Now they‘ve fled to the Qunari. They claim to have converted, but it must be a ploy to avoid justice.”

“You don’t think their conversion could be genuine?”

“A convenient time to find the Qun, don’t you think? Besides, Qun or no Qun, murderers don’t get away in my city. Especially not when they attack one of my men.”

“I’m going to DIE!” Isabela shouted. The other two women both turned to stare at her, and she nodded. “Got your attention, didn’t I? This man called Wall-Eyed Sam has been shopping my relic around; if I can   
get to him and retrieve it, Castillon might not kill me. But I have to go now. Right now.” The pirate turned her head half away as she muttered, “And I need your help.”

“Isabela,” Aveline scoffed. 

“It’s true!”

“I have to avenge a man’s death and keep the Qunari from getting the upper hand in this city. If these elves succeed, the city may well riot, and once attacked, the Qunari will retaliate. It’ll be a bloodbath!” Aveline clenched her fists, taking a deep breath. “Can’t this wait, Isabela?”

“Well … it might be connected,” Isabela said. She took two quick steps backward, taking herself out of Aveline’s reach.

“Connected? Connected how?” 

“The book may be … important.”

“It’s a book now? I thought you told me you didn’t know what the relic was.” Hawke moved toward Isabela.

The pirate retreated until the backs of her legs struck a table. “I … know it’s a book. In a foreign tongue. And that’s all!” She couldn’t meet Hawke’s eyes.

“You’re lying.”

“What does it matter? It’s a book, and I need it!”

“Why can’t you just tell me what it is? Isabela, I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends! That’s why I came to you! Do you think there’s anyone else I would trust to have my back? Castillon’s out for my blood.”

“You’ve been saying that for years. Tell me why it’s different now.”

“I—I can’t.” As Hawke sighed and turned away, Isabela grabbed her arm. “Hawke, you have to help me! Please!” 

She’d never seen Isabela look quite so wild-eyed. Hawke’s disappointment and suspicion with her friend faded—the pirate’s agitation was enough to convince her that somehow this was the moment Isabela had been waiting all these years for. “All right. As soon as I deal with the Qunari, I’ll go wherever you want.”

“I can’t wait! I have to go now. Or Sam will sell the relic and I’ll never be able to find it and Castillon will kill me!”

Hawke cast a glance at Aveline. The Guard-Captain looked pained. “I suppose it can wait, Hawke, if it really has to, but I can’t let this go for long. After killing Petrice in the middle of the Chantry, the Qunari already think they can do whatever they want. I can’t allow them to get away with this, or we might as well hand them the Viscount’s crown.”

“How long ago did the elves run to the Qunari?”

“Maybe an hour ago. I came to you as soon as I heard. Hawke, I’m sorry to have to ask you to get back into your armor so abruptly, but there’s no time to lose. If we can get to the elves before they go through whatever heathen ceremony the Qunari have, maybe we can convince the Arishok to give them up without a fight.”

Biting her lip, Hawke looked from the stolid, determined Captain to the panicked Isabela. “I have to defuse this Qunari situation, or it’ll blow up the whole city,” she said to the pirate. “I’m sorry. I’ll come with you as soon as that’s done—”

“Don’t bother,” Isabela said. Hawke stared at her friend, surprised at the harsh tone. Isabela continued, “I have to do this now, with you or without you. I see where you stand. Sorry to have bothered you.” She walked past Hawke, pausing in the doorway. “It’s been nice knowing you, Hawke.”

Hawke stared at her friend, shocked. How had it come to this so quickly? She hadn’t said no, she’d said she’d come as soon as she could. “Isabela, don’t go off and get yourself killed. Wait for me!”

“A lot you care.” The pirate’s boots didn’t make a sound on the carpet of the hallway, but the door slamming behind her did. Its loud crash said as much as Isabela’s words had of the finality of her intentions.

Aveline’s sigh echoed in the silence Isabela left behind. “I’m sorry, Hawke.”

“It’s not your fault, Aveline. If Isabela had ever trusted me enough to tell me the whole story on this relic, today might have gone differently. As it is …” She shook her head. “I just don’t see why she couldn’t have waited—I told her I’d come. I’ve never lied to her.” 

“Isabela lies all the time. Look how many times she’s said she found that relic. I’m not surprised she can’t trust someone else not to lie to her.”

“Aveline, are you … putting in a good word for Isabela?”

The Guard Captain shrugged. “She’s a filthy whore … but she’s our filthy whore, after all.” She sighed. “I’m sorry this had to come up at the same time as Isabela’s crisis.”

“I know. I’ve never seen Isabela this agitated … but she still wasn’t telling me everything. What was I supposed to do?” Hawke shook her head. “I can’t take the risk that she might be wrong again, and have the Qunari thing blow up in our faces while we’re distracted.”

“Still …” Aveline said. “I hate to see her walk out of here alone.”

Hawke watched the door Isabela had disappeared through, half-hoping to see it open again, to see Isabela dashing back in. “So do I. But she had her chance to be straight with us. Now, let me change and we’ll go deal with the Arishok.”

“We should hurry.” Aveline glared at the door. “This has already cost too much.”

It was the first time Evelyn had been fully armored since the day her mother had died. All the pieces had been cleaned thoroughly, a few times, but much as she loved this armor, she was thinking of having a new set made. This one was indelibly printed in her mind with her mother’s last sigh.

She walked with Aveline through the streets of Lowtown and onto the docks. It felt good to have a purpose again. A small contingent of Aveline’s guardsmen awaited them outside the compound.

“Send them back to the keep, Aveline,” Hawke said.

“What? No! We can’t walk in there alone.”

“If we go in with all these guards, we might as well declare war. Look, Aveline. The Arishok knows me; he respects me as much as he respects anyone in Kirkwall. If you and I go in there together, he might just listen to us. If we go in there with a troop of guardsmen, he won’t take us seriously for a moment.” Aveline tapped her foot, looking conflicted, and Hawke put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Trust me, Aveline.”

“All right.” Aveline turned to the guards. “You, you, and you, wait for us near the steps to Lowtown. The rest of you, stay on the docks. Look casual; go get a sausage or something. But keep a sharp eye out on the compound.” 

The guardsmen saluted, and did as they were told.

“Let’s go,” Hawke said.

A forbidding-looking Qunari stood in front of the closed gate to their compound. 

“I request an audience with the Arishok.” Aveline’s voice and stance made it clear it was a request in name only.

The Qunari’s face didn’t alter as he stared down at her. “The Arishok has nothing to say to you.”

“Maybe he’ll talk to me,” Hawke said.

After a moment, the Qunari nodded. “Pass on, bas.” The Qunari stepped back, allowing Hawke and Aveline to go inside the compound.

The Arishok wasn’t sitting on his throne-like ottoman at the top of the steps; he was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, with his giant double-bladed axe slung over his shoulder. He stood motionless, watching as Hawke and Aveline approached. “Shanedan.”

“You are harboring two murderers in your midst, posing as converts,” Aveline said. Hawke winced at the bluntness, but the Arishok’s expression didn’t change. “Do you deny it?”

He looked down at her. “The elves are viddathari. They will be protected.”

Aveline next to the Arishok looked like a small angry hornet threatening a cliff. Hawke cleared her throat to draw their attention. “Are you sure the elves have truly converted? Do you want to be known as a haven for liars and criminals, the dregs of our society?”

“Your society has nothing but dregs. Only with the Qun can they be salvaged from this festering pit.” He turned back to Aveline. “I have chosen. But you may hear their story.” The Arishok motioned to one of the nearby Qunari, who went to fetch the elves. 

Hawke was shocked to see how young they were. They couldn’t have been out of their teens, and they faced the Guard Captain with a mixture of terror and defiance.

“Speak, viddathari.”

The elf in front, emboldened by the Arishok’s support, stepped forward, his eyes hard as he looked at Aveline. “A city guard attacked our sister. We tried to report it, but no one would listen to us. So we paid him a visit.”

One of Aveline’s guards, a rapist? “Aveline, is this true?”

The Guard Captain threw up her hands. “I don’t know, Hawke. Some of the new recruits have not been to the quality I would like, and this Wilhelm was no credit to the uniform, but we’ve had to build up our forces in preparation …” Her voice trailed off as she glanced significantly at the Arishok. He gave no sign of being aware of her existence, much less of her words. “I will investigate the accusations. It’s the best I can do.” She turned back to the elves. “It doesn’t excuse murder! They took the law into their own hands!”

“In a city as steeped in chaos as this one, sometimes it is necessary,” the Arishok said. “The Qun will give them purpose, help them to understand their place. The Qun brings order.”

“I would have done the same, Aveline,” Hawke said. 

The Guard-Captain glared at her, but it was true—Hawke had done as much as these elves, and more, without argument from Aveline. 

Hawke looked up at the Arishok. “At the same time, the order your Qun promises is brainwashing. No one free to think or choose for themselves, no one able to use their talents to the fullest because they are always constrained by the dictates of the Qun. You cannot impose the Qun on Kirkwall. It will never work.”

“The Qun will make you all see!” The Arishok stepped closer to the two women, towering over them. “The actions of the viddathari are but symptoms. Your society is the disease! All of you, drowning in filth and refusing to stretch out a hand to help yourselves. The viddathari have chosen; they will submit to the Qun. It is time now for me to choose, as well.” His voice was rising, and he stopped his tirade with a visible effort. He looked down at Hawke with an expression almost of regret. “What would you do in my place, Hawke?”

“I would go, Arishok. You don’t want to be here, you don’t respect our society. Go home to Par Vollen.”

“You know I cannot. None of us can return home until I find the relic that was stolen from us.”

“Relic?” The light dawned suddenly; the reason Isabela claimed to be allergic to the Qunari, the reason she was so evasive with her answers. Hawke wished she had the pirate in front of her right now; she’d punch Isabela in her pretty, lying face. “You’ve lost a relic?”

“Lost? It was stolen! Ripped from my grasp, and for lack of it I, and all of us, have been marooned here all this time!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She could have shaken him. If either the Arishok or Isabela had ever told her the truth, she might have been able to prevent things getting this far. “I could have helped you look for it!”

“You? Assist us? You are not of the Qun. Although you do, however improbably, have honor, you are still a woman. For you to recover the relic in my place would have been a deeper shame than having lost it in the first place.”

“What if I could tell you where the relic is? If I could … arrange it so that you could recover it yourself?” How she would find Isabela, much less pry the relic from her grasp, or do so in a way that would satisfy the Arishok’s honor, was beyond her, but if it got the Qunari out of Kirkwall, it would be well worth the effort. 

“It is too late for that. Much too late.” The Arishok looked over Hawke’s head, nodding at someone behind and above her. “There is only one solution: Kirkwall will submit itself to the Qun.”

“Kirkwall will never submit to the Qun! Arishok, this is a mistake. Please, listen to me!”

For a moment, it seemed that his features might soften as he studied her face, but then he turned his face away. “It is done.” He raised the axe, shaking it. All around the walls of the compound, Qunari rose, lifting wicked jagged spears high in the air and shouting. 

“It has begun,” the Arishok said.

Hawke and Aveline stood stunned; they’d known the situation was serious, but this was a development they hadn’t expected.

Suddenly, Hawke was enraged. All these years, trusting people, building relationships with people, only to find that they had held key pieces of information that they hadn’t shared with her, and now to be ambushed when she had tried to come in peace? Reaching for her sword, Hawke moved toward the Arishok. His eyes lit, and he took a defensive stance, holding his axe up. Hawke’s forward momentum was halted when Aveline grabbed her arm. A spear lanced through the air between them, lodging in the mortar of the stone floor. “Hawke!” Aveline shouted. “Not here! Not defensible!”

If she could just kill the Arishok, Hawke thought. But Aveline’s hand on her arm was insistent, and she knew her friend was right. Spears rained around them, carefully aimed to avoid hitting either woman.

Hawke let her friend sprint through the gate, but she turned at the last moment. Across the compound, her eyes met the Arishok’s. Slowly, he nodded. 

“Come on, Hawke!” Aveline shouted. 

Following her friend down the steps and onto the docks, Hawke could hear the screams of the citizenry. It had begun indeed—the Arishok must have had men placed in readiness all around the city. She suspected he had intended to capture her; so why hadn’t he? 

Aveline looked around for the guards she had asked to stay nearby. One lay at the foot of the steps, face up, as though he had been shoved backward down the steps by the massive spear that jutted from his chest. He must have tried to run to their aid when the attacks started. Two more of the guardsmen appeared around the corner of a building, running toward them.

“Captain! We’re under attack! The Qunari are attacking.” The blonde guardswoman, Brennan, stared at Aveline. “The Qunari are attacking,” she repeated, as though they hadn’t heard her the first time.

“Pull yourself together, guardswoman! This is what we’ve trained for.”

“Right.” Brennan swallowed. “Of course.”

“We need to get off the docks,” Hawke said. “Too easy to get trapped here.”

“What about the Gallows?” said another of the guardsmen, a big dark-haired man named Jalen. “Should we try to protect the mages?”

“It’s good thinking, guardsman,” Aveline said, “but the Qunari won’t go near the mages until they have the rest of the city subdued.” 

“The Qunari are in force enough on the docks to prevent the mages from coming to the aid of the rest of the city, as well,” Hawke said, staring wistfully across the water. A contingent of mages really could help. She turned to Aveline. “Let’s go. We need to try to make it to Lowtown … while it’s still there.”


	27. Basalit'an

Fenris leaned back in the chair. He pretended to be studying the cards, but over them, he was watching Varric.

The dwarf stealthily shook his sleeve, the edge of a card peeking out.

“A-HA!” Fenris lunged across the table, grabbing Varric’s sleeve before the card could disappear again.

“Sodding elf,” Varric said. “Why do I keep playing with you?”

Fenris shrugged. He selected a card from his hand, placing it on the table.

“The last Dagger?! Elf, you have the Archdemon’s own luck.” He dug into his pocket for a sovereign, tossing it across the table. “That should buy your next bottle of that wine you swill.”

“Half a bottle,” Fenris said. He didn’t drink any single-sovereign vintages. “Shall we play again?”

“Why not? It isn’t as though I were going to do anything useful with my money,” Varric grumbled.

Deftly, Fenris shuffled the cards. He was about to deal when the door of the Hanged Man was flung open. Isabela rushed through the room, a giant book under her arm. His hands stilled; he was afraid he knew what that book was. Standing up, he handed the cards to Varric. “Wait here. There may be trouble.”

“Right.”

Fenris pushed open the door of Isabela’s room, which she hadn’t bothered to close properly. She was rushing around stuffing items into a large canvas duffle bag.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

She didn’t even look up, snatching some kind of filmy undergarment from the top of a chest.

“Isabela.”

“Your girlfriend wouldn’t help me.”

“Hawke?”

She looked at him, then, her eyes moving from his face to the red band around his wrist. “You wear your heart on your sleeve for anyone else?”

His face flushed. 

“After all these years telling me she’d watch my back if I ever found my relic, she wouldn’t help.” Isabela got down on her knees, looking under her bed. She peered over the top of it at Fenris. “Turns out, I didn’t need her, anyway. Wall-Eyed Sam is a dirty coward—he ran out on the meet he had set up when the Qunari attacked his buyers. All I had to do was shiv him in the back, and the relic is mine again. Who needs Hawke?” 

“And you’re leaving?”

“You don’t miss a trick, do you?” She got to her feet, sauntering across the room toward him. “Want to come with me? I’ll get another boat, we can sail away. Far from Tevinter, far from Kirkwall and everything you can’t have. I can show you things you never dreamed of.”

He stepped away from her. “No.”

“What is there left for you here?”

“I made a promise. I will not break it.”

Isabela made a gagging noise. “Fine. Have it your way. But I’m leaving. You and Hawke have fun with the Qunari attack.”

“The Qunari are attacking?”

“They will be.”

“Because you have the Tome of Koslun.”

Isabela’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

“I recognized it when you came in, and I have had suspicions for some time now. Is that why the Arishok cannot leave?”

“How should I know? Do I look like a Qunari?” He stared at her hard, and she sighed. “Fine. Probably, yes, that’s why he can’t leave.”

“But you intend to return the book to Castillon.”

“He’ll kill me if I don’t.”

“Hawke would protect you with her life if she had to; you know she would.”

“I told you she wouldn’t help me! I begged her to come with me, but she had to go off with Aveline and talk to the Qunari. Always the bloody Qunari!”

“Why did they go talk to the Qunari?” Fenris could hear some kind of disturbance outside, far away. His elven hearing was sharper than Isabela’s, and she was too angry to be listening, anyway. 

“Some elves killed someone and ran off to be Qunari, I guess.”

“And Aveline wanted Hawke to talk the Arishok into giving them up?”

“Something like that. Look, I’m out of here.” Isabela slung the duffle over her shoulder, planting herself in front of him. “You going to get out of my way?”

“Isabela, take the tome back to the Qunari.”

“That’s cute. I take the relic back to the Arishok, and he kills me for stealing it in the first place. Or, I take the relic back to the Arishok and Castillon kills me for stealing it, for losing it, and for giving it away. And all for what?” Isabela looked sad for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Tell Hawke she can have my account at the Blooming Rose—it’s paid up through the end of the year. Or give it to Merrill. That sweet little kitten could use some fun.”

Fenris nodded, moving aside to let her pass. He could have argued with her further, but she wasn’t Hawke. When Isabela made up her mind, she closed it off to any other viewpoint. And she wasn’t mistaken about the Arishok’s probable reaction. To truly regain his honor, he would need to return to Par Vollen with both the book and the thief, and Isabela would wish for death before the Qunari were done with her. It occurred to Fenris that if she left, their paths may not cross again. “Will you … return?”

Isabela stopped on the threshold, looking at him. Her golden eyes were missing their usual flirtatious twinkle. “Will you miss me?” 

Being new to the experience of friendship, Fenris didn’t quite know what to say. “I … suppose?”

The pirate smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back sometime to check on you and your Hawke. Hate to miss a tortured romance.” She threw him a snappy salute and went out the door, heading for the back exit.

Outside, Fenris could hear shouts. It sounded like fighting, and the sounds were close. Immediately his mind went to Hawke. Just when he’d thought things were quiet enough that he could leave her, she went and got herself embroiled in a discussion with the Qunari. Curse that Aveline—couldn’t she have let Hawke gather a team first? He took the stairs at a reckless pace. “Come on,” he said to Varric. “Trouble.”

“Trouble and Isabela: a perfect match,” the dwarf observed, retrieving Bianca from where she rested against his chair. “Where is Isabela?”

“Gone.” Fenris pushed through the door into a Lowtown he hardly recognized. Fires were burning, people screaming. It was like Seheron all over again, and he shook his head to clear it of the unwanted memories.

“Gone?” Varric echoed. “Where—?” His voice cut off as he, too, looked around at the scene. “Maker’s breath, elf, what happened here?”

Out of the smoke came Merrill, with Gamlen’s arm thrown across her shoulders. It appeared to Fenris as though Gamlen’s hand was a bit closer to Merrill’s breast than was actually necessary. From the narrowing of Varric’s eyes, it was clear the dwarf hadn’t missed that detail, either. “The Qunari are attacking!” Merrill said. “Did you know they were going to do that? Did Hawke know? I found Gamlen on my way here from the Alienage, and these others just followed us.” She gestured to a number of other people who stood behind her looking stunned. “It’s quite strange to be looked on as the one who knows where they’re going. I wonder if this is what it would have been like to be a Keeper?”

Fenris kept his mouth firmly shut. Varric bustled forward, grabbing Gamlen’s hand away from the elven woman’s upper chest and nearly dragging Hawke’s uncle to the Hanged Man. “Let’s get everyone into the Hanged Man,” the dwarf said. “They can barricade the doors, there’s plenty of food, and Maker knows Corff keeps enough weaponry around. They should be able to hold off the Qunari long enough for Hawke to—do something.”

Varric’s words sounded confident, but when he glanced up Fenris could see they both had the same question in mind: Was Hawke ready to do something? She hadn’t fought since her mother died.  
They got all the refugees into the Hanged Man, leaving Rigby, one of the regulars, in charge of rounding up all the other refugees he could find. Varric, Fenris, and Merrill moved through Lowtown toward the docks. Fenris tried to think the way Hawke would, to mentally gather their allies. Isabela was gone, Sebastian would be at the Chantry, too far away to reach. Aveline was with Hawke, and the abomination … probably in his clinic. They were better off without him, anyway. The blood mage chattering away to Varric was bad enough.

He was unprepared for the strength of the relief he felt when he saw Hawke climbing the stairs up from the docks. Aveline was with her, and a few of Aveline’s guardsmen. For one mad moment, Fenris was afraid he would have to take Evelyn in his arms, to feel for himself that she was unharmed. He controlled himself with an effort.

Her eyes met his as she climbed the last few steps to where he and Varric and Merrill waited. “Thank the Maker!” Hawke said. “We were just coming to look for you all. How bad is it?” She looked past him at the smoke coming from Lowtown.

“Bad enough. Lowtown has been attacked.” He saw Hawke’s eyes widen and hastened to reassure her. “Your uncle is in the Hanged Man, with a number of others.”

“Have you seen Donnic?” Aveline asked. 

Fenris recognized how deep her feelings must be for the guardsman, if she could be thinking of personal concerns at a time like this, and he wished he had a satisfactory answer for her. He shook his head, and Aveline’s face fell. “Isabela is gone,” he said to Hawke, whose mouth tightened in anger.

“She told you what happened? I told her I’d go with her, just as soon as …” Hawke’s voice trailed off as she looked around. “But I suppose she knew better than I did what the consequences of my meeting with the Arishok would be.” There was no satisfactory answer to that comment, and Hawke didn’t seem to expect one. She looked at Fenris. “You’ve seen Qunari attacks before. What will they do now?”  
Visions of Seheron swam in front of his eyes, and he blinked them away. “They will try to collect as many people as they can in a single, defensible place.”

“For what purpose?” Aveline asked.

“Conversion.”

“Where?” Hawke asked. 

“The Viscount’s keep,” Aveline said. “Has to be—it’s the most defensible point in the city, and they can take most of the city’s leadership captive in a single attack. Especially with me and half the reserves drawn away on a fool’s errand. I should have known those elves were nothing but bait.”

“You had no other choice,” Hawke said. 

“Yes. And that’s what the Qunari must have counted on.”

“Beat yourself up over it later, then, if you have to,” Hawke said, the sympathy in her face softening the hard words. “We need to move now, if we’re going to make it to the Viscount’s keep before the Qunari get too firm a hold on it.”

“You go,” Aveline said. “My men and I will keep the Qunari down here as occupied as we can while the rest of you get to the keep.”

Hawke nodded. “Maker watch over you, Aveline.”

“And you. Hawke, if you see Donnic …” 

“I’ll keep an eye out.” The two women clasped wrists. Aveline nodded to the others, then barked a few orders to her guardsmen, and they headed toward the smoke rising from deep inside Lowtown.

Hawke, Fenris, Merrill, and Varric made their way to Hightown, staying near the walls and hiding in the shadows as best they could. Fenris could see how badly Hawke wanted to fight every battle along the way, to take out each small group of Qunari, but such a course would have been incredibly inefficient, and she stayed her blade unless it was absolutely necessary.

Hightown wasn’t quite as badly besieged as Lowtown—here the Qunari seemed more interested in containment than in destruction. They were overpowering the few people remaining in the streets, herding them toward the keep. 

“Maker, I hate it when you’re right, elf,” Varric grumbled.

In front of them were two Qunari, one of whom was dragging a hysterically shrieking woman by the heel. Her head thudded along the ground, but it didn’t diminish the pitch or frequency of her outcries.

“Merrill,” Hawke said, keeping her voice low.

Immediately, the elf reached down toward the earth, her hands closing. She brought them up again, fists still clenched, and a solid wall of earth surrounded one of the Qunari, completely encasing him up to his chest. At the same time, Varric drew Bianca, the crossbow clicking into position, and she sang, the quarrel flying across the space and embedding itself in the spine of the other Qunari. The woman on the ground continued shrieking for a moment before realizing she was free. Scrambling to her feet, she ran past them, toward Lowtown. Fenris and Hawke moved forward together, blades raised, and finished off the two helpless Qunari.

Suddenly the ground shook beneath their feet, a massive explosion in the air hurling them all to the ground. Disoriented, Fenris tried to rise, his eyes straining to focus. He could barely see the form of a saarebas approaching, arms raised to cast another spell, purple sparks filling the air. Fenris needed to move, his brain was screaming the commands, but his body refused to obey, still stunned from the explosion.

And then the saarebas fell to his knees, a sword protruding from his chest. It was as swiftly removed, the Qunari mage slumping over onto the ground. Fenris’s vision cleared, and he looked up at the stern face of Knight-Commander Meredith. 

“Serah Hawke,” Meredith said, in a voice as cold and beautiful as her eyes. She held out a gauntleted hand to help Hawke up. “Your name has come up in my reports with disturbing, and increasing, frequency. You seem to have embroiled yourself very thoroughly in the affairs of Kirkwall. But that is of no consequence right now. The Qunari seem to be taking everyone they can collect into the Viscount’s keep, although to what purpose I don’t know.”

“They will attempt to contain everyone of import in the same place,” Fenris said. “Those who convert, live. Those who don’t …”

“Charming.” Meredith didn’t spare a glance for him, her eyes focused on Hawke. Behind Meredith, Fenris could see the slim form of First Enchanter Orsino, as well as three helmeted Templars. “No one can reach Kirkwall from the Gallows,” Meredith said. “The Qunari hold the docks. Nor can we return—it is fortunate for Kirkwall that the First Enchanter and I had business here today.”

“Fortunate, indeed,” Hawke said. “Do you have a plan?”

“We go to the keep.” Meredith turned around, striding deeper into Hightown.

“Some plan,” Varric muttered.

“Ssh,” Hawke said, but she grinned at the dwarf. Orsino fell into step on the other side of Hawke, leaving Fenris and Merrill to follow behind. 

Fenris stayed close, though, unwilling to be far from Hawke if she might need him, and so he heard when Orsino said quietly, “I am relieved that your sister is not here. The Gallows should be safe.”

“Only if we win,” Hawke said.

“Then we must. Bethany is too precious to lose.” The First Enchanter looked at Hawke sideways, testing to see if she followed his meaning.

Her swiftly indrawn breath said she did. Fenris supposed the First Enchanter was a step up from the abomination, but equally dangerous, he suspected. He flatly refused to contemplate what it might mean that Hawke’s sister was involved with an elf. The situations were too different to compare.

The streets of Hightown had mostly been cleared now, only the occasional Qunari guard blocking their way to the keep. Meredith took care of most of them by herself, twirling her large sword efficiently and precisely. She wasn’t quite as deadly as Hawke—Meredith seemed to think too much of how she looked while she was fighting—but she was formidable, certainly. They reached the bottom of the keep stairs faster than Fenris had expected they would. Too fast. Surely the Qunari would want to take Meredith, Orsino, and above all, Hawke, the human in Kirkwall they most respected, captive. The fact that the three of them were still walking around made Fenris suspicious that something greater was being planned.

A mass of Qunari milled about at the top of the steps, outside the door of the keep. A formidable grouping—more than Fenris thought even their collective blades could handle. 

“What do we do now?” Orsino asked.

“There is no time for talk,” Meredith said. “We must attack.”

“We can’t just attack!” Orsino said. “The hostages will be killed or harmed if we attack them from the front. We need a distraction, to get a team in through the side door at the center of the stairs.”

“Orsino’s right,” Hawke said. She looked the First Enchanter. “Can you keep them occupied?”

The First Enchanter started to speak, but stopped, looking to Meredith. 

Meredith held the pause just long enough to emphasize her power over the mage. “You may provide a distraction, Orsino. We will assist you.” She motioned to the Templars behind her, who moved closer to the First Enchanter. Turning to Hawke, Meredith said, “Get ready.”

Hawke nodded. Orsino moved to the bottom of the steps, raising his staff.

“ _Bas saarebas_!” cried the Qunari. “ _Atash Qunari_!” But before they could attack, a fireball sailed through the air. Two of the Qunari fell to the ground writhing, engulfed in flames, several more staggering back with burns covering them in several places.

“Go!” Meredith shouted, following Orsino up the stairs, her Templars close at her heels.

Hawke moved swiftly through the door halfway up the stairs, Fenris, Varric, and Merrill following her. The halls of the keep were hushed and silent, a far cry from the hum of gossip and complaints that usually filled them. Familiar with the hallways from her visits to Aveline, Hawke led them unerringly to the throne room, where two Qunari stood at attention. They gave a shout when Hawke came into sight, but Merrill’s earth magic caught one and Bianca’s barbed tongue held the other. Hawke and Fenris took the guards’ heads off with brutal efficiency.

Throwing open the doors, Hawke began to step forward, but halted with a horrified exclamation when the Viscount’s severed head rolled out the door, coming to rest at her feet. It was followed by the Viscount’s crown, the metal sounding surprisingly cheap and flimsy as it spun on the carpet.

The Arishok came down the stairs toward Hawke, his great axe slung over his shoulder. To Fenris, it looked oddly as though the Arishok were relieved to see Hawke there, and he was more certain than ever that Hawke had been allowed to come through the city unscathed on purpose. He could not fathom why, but it seemed unlikely to bode well for her. 

Hawke moved across the carpet, stepping carefully over the Viscount’s head, and the human warrior and the Arishok met in the center of the room.

“ _Shanedan_ , Hawke. I have been expecting you. For all your might, you are no different from these bas. You are blind; I will make you see.” 

“We can work this out,” Hawke said.

The Arishok regarded her for a moment, then said, “Perhaps.” That was the last thing Fenris had expected to hear. No Qunari would have set this chain of events in motion if he entertained the thought of giving up the battle. The Arishok raised a hand, snapping his fingers. Four Qunari stepped into the center of the room, surrounding Hawke. Fenris pushed his way between two of them, rather surprised when they let him by. Varric and Merrill followed, so that it was the four of them looking at the four Qunari. “Prove yourself, _basra_ ,” the Arishok said, “or kneel with your brethren.” 

At a signal from the Arishok, the four Qunari attacked. Fenris leaped into the air, bringing his sword down on the one nearest him, slicing open the Qunari’s face; then he jumped to the side, out of the way of the Qunari’s swing, and with a back-handed blow opened a crater in the Qunari’s back. Gouts of blood fell to the carpet, and the Qunari roared, turning weakly and swinging his blade with no force behind it. Fenris dodged the blow easily and finished the Qunari off with a final thrust.

The others had taken out their targets as quickly, and the disquieting suspicion that they were being set up—that Hawke was being set up—grew stronger. 

“ _Parshaara_ ,” the Arishok said, sounding almost pleased. “You are _basalit-an_ , after all. None other in this cesspool of a city command such respect.” He stood in front of Hawke, looking down at her. “Tell me, Hawke. You know I cannot withdraw. There is no Par Vollen for me, not until I recover the relic. How would you resolve this conflict?”

“Let me get the relic back,” Hawke said softly. “Please. Then all this bloodshed can end and you can go home.”

“I have told you that is impossible.” The Arishok looked up and over Hawke’s shoulder, his eyes meeting Fenris’s. 

And suddenly Fenris knew. Knew why Hawke had been spared, why the Arishok had waited for her. The only way for this to end was for the Arishok to die; his death would free all the others to go home to Par Vollen without committing the Qunari to a war with the Free Marches they weren’t ready for. And the only hand the Arishok could honorably die by was Hawke’s. Fenris’s heart sank. The Arishok wanted him to suggest single combat—Fenris had to do it because he was the only one with sufficient knowledge of the Qun. His heart rebelled against the idea. As great a warrior as Hawke was, she was no match for a Qunari. The Arishok was twice her size. And she hadn’t practiced in over a month! No, Fenris thought. He couldn’t consign her to death, not even to save all of Kirkwall; how could he even consider such a thing?

But even as his heart protested against such a course, his mind knew it was the only thing to do. More, that it was what Hawke would want him to do. “Arishok,” he said. “You have named this woman _basalit-an_. Defeating her in single combat would prove your dominance to the city.”

There was a hint of pleasure in the Arishok’s eyes, but he still had to preserve his face before his people. “If you knew the Qun,” he said, “you would not suggest such a thing. There is no honor in fighting a woman.”

“This is no mere female,” Fenris said. “By your own words, she is a respected outsider.”

“Hmm.” The Arishok’s eyes flicked back to Hawke. “What say you, Hawke?”

“What would the rules be?” Her voice was cool, but Fenris could hear the nervousness in it.

“We fight to the death,” the Arishok said, his voice filling with enthusiasm. “Kill me and the duty that binds me is ended; the others may return to Par Vollen.”

“And if I lose?”

The Arishok raised an eyebrow. “Then you are dead.”

Hawke took a deep breath. “Very well. I accept. To the death, Arishok.”

“ _Meravaas_! So shall it be.” Over her head, the Arishok looked at Fenris, nodding ever so slightly.

Fenris felt ill. What had he done?

Hawke and the team moved into a corner as she prepared for the combat.

“Are you sure about this?” Varric asked.

“It’s the only way.” Hawke studiously avoided looking at Fenris. Was she angry with him?

“It’s very exciting, Hawke. Do you think you can win?”

“I have to, Merrill.”

“Good luck.” The blood mage’s usual cheery chirp was softened.

“Hawke, be careful,” Varric said.

“Always am.” Now she looked up at Fenris, her blue eyes meeting his squarely. There was something in them that acknowledged all the things he had been pretending not to feel, that hinted at feelings of her own. Fear coursed through him—what if she died without him ever telling her…

Hawke turned away, crossing the room and standing before the Arishok, her sword poised. Though she was a tall woman, she looked small next to the giant Qunari.

“ _Mane incoluma, me anim_ *,” Fenris whispered. The dwarf turned to glare at him; it was plain Varric hadn’t followed the Arishok’s intent and blamed Fenris for the danger Hawke was in.

The combatants squared off. The nobility the Qunari had collected moved to stand around the sides of the room, watching avidly. The first clash of blades was nearly deafening. The Arishok’s great axe met Hawke’s long blade, sending her staggering back several steps. Fenris’s hands curled into fists, clenching so tightly the knuckles hurt. 

Hawke didn’t stop to set her stance—she ran forward, her greater speed and agility allowing her to dart in close, slashing the blade across the Arishok’s upper thighs. It was a good strategy. The more blood the Arishok lost during the duel, the better it was for Hawke. She whirled away as the Arishok roared in pain. Fenris could see the other Qunari around the room shifting slightly in sudden concern; the Arishok was not supposed to have been blooded first. 

The Arishok aimed a mighty blow at Hawke’s head. She dodged it, but the axe clipped her on the shoulder. Her armor held, but it was bent at the shoulder, compromising her freedom of movement. They circled each other now, each trying various thrusts and blows that were parried or sidestepped by the other fighter. The Arishok took a long step back, out of Hawke’s reach. He crouched slightly, then put on an incredible burst of speed, barrelling toward Hawke. She barely managed to twist out of his way, spinning to land a blow across his unprotected lower back. 

The Arishok was angry now, and tiring, bleeding freely from the thighs and back. The smells of hot blood and sweat and metal filled the room. The Qunari slashed at Hawke, the axe catching her in the side. She stumbled away, and Fenris could see the red gleam of blood, but her mangled armor prevented him from being able to discern the extent of the damage. Pressing his advantage, the Arishok slammed into Hawke, and she cried out in pain as her armor crumpled under his attack. 

An old Tevinter prayer, one Fenris hadn’t even known he knew, was repeating in his head as he fought the nearly overwhelming urge to get out there and help her.

Hawke shook her head, sweat flying. She was panting, clearly having trouble catching her breath, and the Arishok set himself for another charge, shouting out something incomprehensible in Qunari as he came. Fenris saw Hawke brace herself against a pillar, her lips moving as though she was counting. At the last minute, when the Arishok had too much momentum to stop, she slid down the pillar, out of the way of the oncoming axe, and brought her blade up. It sank into his stomach, stabbing upward through the lungs, his axe glancing off the marble of the pillar above her head and sliding across the floor.

Blood bubbling to his lips, the Arishok staggered backward, staring at Hawke. His lips moved as though he was speaking. The Qunari collapsed onto the stairs, his eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling.

Hawke moved forward, wrenching her blade out of the Arishok’s vitals. She held it up, making eye contact with the nearest Sten. The Qunari nodded. With a single sharp word, he gathered the others, and they left the room together. Hawke stood in the middle of the room, watching as the Qunari left. Her face was pale under the blood spattering it. Too pale, Fenris thought with alarm.

Meredith marched into the room, looking curiously at Hawke. “Is it over?” She sounded disappointed, as well she might. Meredith had missed any chance she might have had to become Kirkwall’s hero.

Hawke nodded wearily, the sword dropping to the floor. Next to Fenris, Varric moved, making his way through the throng of nobles toward Hawke.

Ignoring, or oblivious to, the warrior’s distress, Meredith turned to the nobles. “It seems Kirkwall has a new champion,” she announced, in much the tone she might have used had she found a mouse in her soup.

Orsino came into the room, the Templars surrounding him closely. His eyes went straight for Hawke, and concern crossed his face. He started to speak, but whatever he was about to say was lost in the collective gasp as Hawke crumpled to the floor. Varric was there immediately, gathering her up with her head in his lap, bending over her. Orsino looked at Meredith beseechingly. The Knight-Commander hesitated, then nodded, and Orsino fell to his knees next to Hawke’s body. He and Varric gently removed her bent and mangled armor.

Fenris couldn’t see what was happening, too many nobles in the way of his view of her. His panicked heartbeat was pounding thunderously in his ears, each pulse reminding him that this was his fault, that if she died, it was because of him. 

Merrill, standing to his left, was wringing her hands, uttering small whimpering noises, and Fenris whirled on her. “Shut up, witch! What good are you? You—“ But the words died on his lips. It was himself he truly wished to berate, not the mage. Merrill may not have been able to heal, but she hadn’t been the one to land Hawke in this precarious situation. Straining to see over the collected nobles, he held his breath. With everything in him, he wanted to be there, holding her as Varric was, whispering to her all the things he had never been man enough to say, pleading with her not to die and leave him here alone without her. The decision came to him without conscious thought that if she died, he would leave, go straight to Tevinter and kill his master … and he would make certain that Danarius killed him as well. Perhaps in the Fade he would have the courage to seek her out and tell her everything she meant to him. 

At last, Orsino stood up. “Stand back, everyone. Let the Champion breathe. Rest assured, she’s going to be fine.”

Relief weakened Fenris’s knees and stung his eyes with tears he was too ashamed to shed. Ducking his head, he fled the room.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Hawke opened her eyes slowly, feeling returning to her body. The Arishok’s blows had done more damage than she’d been aware of, and she had been drifting far away on a dark sea. Coming back now, the sounds and the scents were nearly overpowering, and the light stabbed her eyes when she opened them. Unable to focus fully on the face bending over hers, she reached for the first name to come to mind, the longed-for, beloved name. “Fenris?”

“Sorry, Hawke. Just me.” 

She placed the voice. “Varric.” She couldn’t seem to force more words out, but her eyes asked the question she couldn’t say.

“The elf was here, but I don’t see him now.”

“Oh.” The disappointment was nearly as crushing as the blow from the Arishok, and Hawke let herself float away in the blackness again, oblivious to the concerned nobles who surrounded her and conveyed her home to recover in her own bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Stay safe, my heart._


	28. Year One: Wicked Grace

“And then the farmer said, ‘A nug like that, you don’t eat all at once!’” The mage didn’t look up, and Varric cleared his throat. “Blondie, you’re not listening. That joke’s all the rage in the Merchants’ District.”

“What?” Anders looked up from the parchment he was scribbling on.

“Haven’t you finished that manifesto yet? At least let me look it over. I’m sure I can punch it up.” Varric gave up when it became clear that Anders wasn’t listening. The mage stared off into space for a moment before writing something else down, in a tiny cramped hand that was barely legible even with a magnifying glass. “Or give it up for a few hours and come to work with us. The fresh air and exercise will be good for you.” Although there weren’t many jobs these days. Hawke having become Champion of Kirkwall had been nothing more than a ticket to drudgery, as far as Varric could tell. His friend was expected to attend all sorts of mind-numbing meetings talking about political issues, and those who might really need her help seemed to view her as out of their reach. Most days Varric wished Hawke had waited for Meredith and let the Knight-Commander kill the Arishok. It would have been easier. He took his feet off the edge of Anders’s desk and got up. “Come on, Blondie, Wicked Grace night. You used to be the best.”

“That was before the elf started playing all the time,” Anders groused. The broody elf’s abilities as a card-player were fearsome, and it had just given the two men one more rivalry. 

“You can’t stay down here writing all the time,” Varric said, looking at the bent blond head. “You have to get out into the rest of Kirkwall sometimes—how else will you find material to write about?”

“You don’t think centuries of oppression by the Chantry is enough material?” Anders snapped. Then he sighed. “I’ll get up if someone needs my healing. Otherwise … this has to be finished. Everyone has to know, Varric.”

“If you insist.” Varric shook his head. Of all the stubborn mages. “Remember, if you or the clinic need anything—”

“You’re just a messenger away,” Anders finished. 

“Right.” Varric started to walk away but paused when Anders called his name. He turned to look at the mage, eyebrows raised in question.

“Thank you. For trying.”

“Anytime.” Just when Varric was about to give up on him, the man he’d first befriended would appear in the mage’s brown eyes and convince him there was something still in there that was worth saving. It happened with less and less frequency these days.

He took a back route up from Darktown, detouring by Hawke’s house. Bodahn informed him that she wasn’t there—apparently she’d gone to dinner with the young Templar, Keran, whom they’d saved from blood mages several years ago. Varric was a bit surprised. He wouldn’t have thought Keran was Hawke’s type. But then, maybe that was the point.

On his way to the Hanged Man, Varric passed another young Templar, Trevor, pacing in a courtyard. Terrien had taken his young ward away to Orlais, and Trevor’s haunted, sunken eyes were an eloquent expression of how he was taking his loss. The old woman with her voluminous rags was there, too, hunched in a corner, watching Trevor with alternating sympathy and irritation. The two of them made a picturesque tableau, but the overall mood of sadness and desolation in the courtyard made Varric shiver, and he hurried on.

He could hear the raucousness of the Hanged Man on Wicked Grace night from several blocks away, and it warmed his heart. So many things in Kirkwall changed, but the Hanged Man was always the same. He hoped it always would be. There were a few scorch marks on the stucco walls now, from where the Qunari had tried to burn out the refugees who had fled there, but they had all banded together and driven the Qunari away with some well-thrown Antivan cocktails. Varric had cheered their ingenuity, while regretting the loss of several very nice bottles of Antivan brandy. 

Wandering among the tables, he watched some of the games in progress. The elf was facing Tomwise, the poison-brewer. Aveline was there, loudly arguing a rules point with Gamlen. Daisy’s sweet face was twisted in a frown as she studied her cards. Her opponent, a dwarven merchant Varric knew only slightly, tapped his foot in impatience, which only flustered her more. Despite Varric’s patient hours of tutoring, Daisy had never quite grasped the subtleties of the card play—all the necessary deception and the rampant cheating were completely foreign to her nature—but that didn’t stop her from playing. Even the Choirboy was there, leaning against a post and watching the elf’s game. Varric drifted in that direction.

“Come on, Fenris, lay a card,” Tomwise was complaining. 

“In a moment.” 

“You know the point of this game is to play it, don’t you?”

The elf looked up at Tomwise. “Taking one’s time is hardly akin to not playing. Perhaps now you are regretting your own haste?”

“Oh, Creators’ creeping crud. You know you’re going to win, why do you have to draw it out like this?” Tomwise drained his mug of ale, slamming it down on the table so hard the cards jumped. 

Varric suppressed a grin at Tomwise’s frustration. Broody had that effect on a lot of players. He was completely unflappable, rarely making a misplay, and his face never gave anything away. He bluffed superbly, almost as well as Varric himself, although in an entirely different way. The elf rarely lost focus, making it incredibly difficult to cheat when playing against him. Varric took it as a challenge—it was much more satisfying to cheat against Fenris than against someone like Gamlen, who was too busy ham-handedly trying to cheat to notice what incredible finesse Varric cheated with.

“I take it Broody’s winning,” he said to the Choirboy.

“Was there any doubt?” 

The door opened, and Hawke came in, her presence causing little stir in the room. She liked to say that the Hanged Man was one of the few places she could go and still feel like a normal person. No one in the Hanged Man cared that she was Champion of Kirkwall, although quite a few of them enjoyed betting on which handsome young man would appear on her arm next. She was alone tonight, despite what Bodahn had said about Keran. Which reminded Varric … He nudged the Choirboy in the ribs.

“Twenty silvers on Tomwise.”

“Are you joking?” Sebastian looked down at the dwarf, frowning.

Varric shrugged. “Call it a hunch.”

“Done,” Sebastian said, in a tone that called Varric’s sanity into question.

Hawke nodded at Varric and Sebastian and crossed the room toward the bar to get a drink.

“Got you!” Tomwise shouted. “Three serpents!”

“Three? When did you draw the third serpent?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Tomwise grinned, collecting the cards and starting to shuffle.

Varric did know—Tomwise had drawn the extra serpent when Hawke came in. It was lucky for Broody that Hawke didn’t come by on Wicked Grace night very often, because the elf lost his concentration entirely when she was in the room. How it was that none of the other regular players had never noticed this, Varric didn’t understand, but he certainly wasn’t sharing the information.

Hawke didn’t talk about the elf, and getting Broody to talk about anything personal was like getting a straight answer at a Merchants’ Guild meeting, but it was easy to see, at least to Varric, that whatever had been between them hadn’t been resolved. She was cordial to the elf but refused to look at him. Broody presented a stoic front, but every now and then, when Hawke wasn’t watching, Varric would catch an expression of great tenderness and longing in the green eyes. Sometimes he thought he should step in, force them to deal with whatever the problem was, but Varric was an observer, a storyteller, not a meddler, he told himself. Bad things happened to people who meddled.

“Sebastian, come over here. I need an opponent who knows what they’re doing,” Aveline called. She glared at Gamlen, who got up with alacrity, leaving his seat for the Choirboy.

“More like she needs an opponent who’ll fold when she yells at him,” Varric said to Hawke, who laughed.

“Had enough for one night, Uncle?” she asked as Gamlen went by.

“That woman should be outlawed,” the older man grumbled. “Nice to see you.”

“You, too.” Hawke watched as her uncle went out. 

“You think he’s figured out yet that you’re the one who pays his tab at the Blooming Rose?”

“He must’ve. Who else would pay it?” Hawke shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if he knows. It’s the least I can do—he’s all the family I have left. Besides you, of course.” She smiled down at him with affection.

Varric ducked his head uncomfortably. “You must be bored; I know watching Wicked Grace isn’t your favorite thing.”

“No. No, I suppose it isn’t.”

“Come on upstairs, then. You have to try the new imports.”

“Lead on, my friend.”

Upstairs in his rooms he put the kettle on the hearth. “You’ll like this—not as licorice heavy as the Antivan we had last month.”

“Where’s this one come from?”

“Rivain. So it’s spicy, but all oranges and cinnamon.” He busied himself with the cups and measuring out the tea leaves. “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather have a brandy?”

Hawke shook her head. “No, I like the tea. Besides, I’m too old for all that drinking all night.”

Varric stopped what he was doing, frowning up at her. “Too old? What are you, thirty?”

“Yes.”

“Pish.” He turned carefully back to the tea leaves, not looking at Hawke. “Speaking of Rivain …”

“No, Varric.”

“I heard from her, though. I thought you’d want to know.”

“You heard from her? What, did she need bail?”

“She says she’s sorry.”

Hawke laughed harshly, stretching out on his bed. “Varric, if your heart was any softer, it would melt.”

“You won’t even consider forgiving her?”

“Well, she’d have to apologize to me first, for starters.” 

The teakettle whistled, and Varric poured the steaming water into the teacups. “Cookies?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Of course!”

He got out an assortment of the prepackaged cookies he bought in the Hightown Market. It was risky buying them—they were sold entirely too close to the Merchants’ Guild for comfort—but they were so good. Meringues with almonds, iced cookies with peppermint chunks, chewy oatmeal raisin. Although Hawke ate all of those, saying they reminded her of Ferelden. 

“New spice in them this week. Didn’t you tell Dunya not to mess with the recipe anymore?”

“I know, but she’s so excited to be personal cookie baker to the Champion—“

“You didn’t.”

Varric ducked his head sheepishly. “She seemed so happy about it.”

“You won’t be happy if Bodahn and Orana ever get wind of that.” Hawke accepted the teacup, taking a sip of the fragrant beverage. “Lovely.”

“So what should I say to …” Varric began delicately. 

Hawke sighed. “Tell her to get her traitorous lying ass home where she belongs, so I can welcome her properly.”

Varric chuckled. “You sound like Aveline.”

“I sound more like Aveline than Aveline, these days. All she can do is bill and coo over Donnic.”

“Can you blame her?”

“No, I suppose not. He is easy on the eyes, I’ll give him that.”

“Speaking of easy on the eyes, how was Keran?” Varric stretched his feet out toward the fire, dunking a bite of shortbread into his tea.

Hawke groaned. “Young. Very, very young.”

“Why did you go out with him anyway?”

“It seemed like the thing to do.”

“You don’t have to date all these men, you know.” They were getting close to dangerous territory, and Varric held his breath.

“Yes, I do.” She studied her tea intently to avoid looking at him.

“Why?”

Hawke looked up, staring at the wall, searching for the words. “Well, I’m … thirty. And Mother’s gone. And …” She let that sentence trail off, and Varric didn’t pursue it. “I just … I need to get my life started, Varric. I need to decide what I want, and where I’m going, before I get to the point where I realize the decision was made without my ever thinking about it.”

She looked so lost and forlorn that Varric looked away, feeling that he was intruding on a moment too private even for him. He cursed the broody bastard for putting her through this, and didn’t feel any better for knowing that the suffering went both ways. The silence lengthened until Varric couldn’t leave the question unasked. “Couldn’t you … say something to him?”

“Look who’s talking,” she said. “Have you ever told her how you feel?”

“The difference between you and me, Hawke, is that I closed that door a long time ago. I couldn’t open it, even if I thought what I wanted would be on the other side.” He thought for a moment of the delicate chiseled features and soft shining eyes that had filled so many of his daydreams, and then put the thought away. “Tell you what. You have another cookie, and we’ll see if I can’t sell you on dwarves.”

She laughed, as he had hoped she would, and the talk turned to other things.


	29. Year Two: Diamondback

Her lips moved across his flesh, leaving fire leaping just under his skin wherever they moved. He arched into the touch. Such pleasure was beyond his capacity to endure; he could never have imagined that anyone could inspire such intensity of sensation within his body. He heard himself moan, the sound echoing strangely …

Fenris’s eyes opened, and he bolted upright off the mattress. The covers were tangled around his legs, his chest running with sweat. It was a hot night in Kirkwall, but not hot enough to have agitated him so badly. The dream came back to him, the feel of Hawke’s mouth and hands on his body as stimulating in memory as they had been the night he’d spent in her arms. His body ached for release, but not as desperately as his heart ached for her. 

Nothing had been quite the same between them since he’d fled the Viscount’s throne room after her duel with the Arishok. She’d come out of that experience with hard eyes and an air of aloofness, completely in keeping with her new persona as the Champion, but not the Hawke Fenris had grown to care for. He hated to see it in her, but what right did he have to complain? He was the one who had gotten her into that duel in the first place. So he kept his own counsel and stayed away from her, as he should have done from the beginning. He couldn’t regret what had happened between them—those were the most precious of the small stock of memories he possessed, and would be a warmth and a brightness in his life as long as he lived—but it was far better for her to involve herself with half the men in Kirkwall than to continue thinking of him with tenderness. Or so he told himself, as he stood by the window and gazed across Hightown toward her home.

Sleep was over for him that night, and so he dressed swiftly and went out, a mere shadow in the cobbled streets of Hightown. It was early, the sky just beginning to lighten with the approach of dawn, and it promised to be a humid day, reminiscent of the Seheron jungles. 

Fenris crossed into Lowtown and made his way to Mistress Blodgett’s. Her establishment had become so popular in the last several years that the only way to get a quiet meal was to get there in the morning before she was officially open. Oddly enough, that was also the only time she would serve him. The rest of the day she told him to run along and eat elsewhere, as she was too busy to feed him, and he couldn’t help but notice that she always gave him pies from a separate shelf. The pies were better than they used to be, but not enough so to justify the popularity, in Fenris’s view. He resolutely refused to wonder about it, however. Mistress Blodgett was the first person in his memory to view him with the kind of unquestioning affection he imagined family members felt for one another. Whatever his suspicions might have been otherwise, he kept them firmly locked away. 

Even with his considerable strength of mind, he couldn’t ignore the smells. They always dissipated by late morning when the shop opened, but in the early morning when the bake ovens were going the odor was sickening. He breathed shallowly through his mouth as he opened the door and went in.

“Duckie!” Mistress Blodgett’s face, which had increased in size over the last several years of prosperity, lit up when she saw him. She put down the rolling pin, reaching for a pie off of his shelf. “Baked this one special for you, I did. It’s got rosemary in it, from the plant you brought me on Summerday. Couldn’t believe you did somethin’ so nice for me, and from the Champion’s own garden, too.” She simpered, handing him the greasy pie on a napkin. 

“It was my pleasure,” he said, uncomfortable as always being thanked. “Where is Serah Drury?” he asked after a few bites. He hadn’t seen the barber around the last few times he’d visited.

“Oh, always busy, that one,” Mistress Blodgett said, turning away and bending over the oven. Fenris didn’t think the sudden red in her cheeks was to do with the heat, however. “Always seems to have folks waiting to be barbered.”

“And his family? Has there been any change?”

Mistress Blodgett looked at him, her curls bobbing and a sly smile on her face. “Now, who told you, duckie? I meant it to be a surprise. You’ll be invited, of course.” 

“Did he find his daughter, then?”

“Oh. That family.” The smile faded. “No, not that I know of.”

“Wait—are you and he …?”

Mistress Blodgett’s face was bright red now, and her expression was an odd mixture of bashfulness and triumph. “Well, it’s not official-like, but ...” She ducked her head, simpering.

“I see. _Bene fortunis_ *.” He felt strangely lost and bereft, not having expected this turn of events at all. Mistress Blodgett had returned to her cooking, studying the dough as though it contained the mysteries of the ages. Fenris glanced outside, calculating the height of the sun. “I believe I must go—there is someone I promised to meet.”

“Good to see you, duckie. Come again soon.” 

“I shall.” 

She smiled at him with what he believed to be genuine affection, and he felt a warm bubble of shy happiness. Perhaps things wouldn’t have to change if she and Drury became a couple.

The sun was up as Fenris made his way through Lowtown toward the docks. He looked nervously around to be certain no one he knew was about. It was early enough that most would still be abed, but Merrill and Sebastian both tended to be early risers, and either one would insist on accompanying him should they see him on his errand.

The docks were teeming with workers, loading last pieces of cargo onto ships that were eager to be off on the morning tide. Fenris made his way adroitly through the crowds, searching for the elf he had spoken to previously, a sailor friend of Tomwise’s. 

“You’re back, are ya? Thought it was too dangerous for you.”

“It is dangerous, but I must make the attempt. There will be—I have nothing until I accomplish this task.”

The sailor spat a mouthful of tobacco juice on the ground. “All’s I care about is your coin.” Fenris held out a small purse, which the sailor snatched from his hand, weighing it with a practiced hand. “Feels full enough. And you’ve got the letter?”

“I have.” Fenris held that out, as well. It was wrapped in a wax cylinder and sealed with a generic seal he’d acquired in Hightown’s market. “You know how to get it to her?”

“Aye.”

“And you will see to it that my name is not mentioned except to Varania herself?”

“Aye. You tell Tomwise we’re even after this.”

“I shall do so. Thank you.”

Fenris watched as the sailor climbed the gangplank. His heart was pounding in his chest. It was done, now. His sister was in Minrathous, which made it remarkably perilous to contact her, but contact her he must. There could be no peace until he knew he had done all he could to regain his identity, to get in touch with what may be the last family member he had. Would she be pleased to hear from him? Or frightened? Would she even remember him? No matter. Whatever her response, he had to know.

It would take some time for the ship to get to Minrathous, for the sailor to find and contact Varania, for her to respond. In the meantime, he would have to put his questions and speculations away in the same box in which he kept his memories of Hawke. The box was already so crowded the thoughts were spilling over into his dreams, but the alternative was to keep it all at the front of his mind all the time, and that could not be borne.

He was still standing there, watching the ships being loaded, when he heard Varric’s voice. “Oh, good. You’re here. That’ll be handy.”

“It will?” He turned to look at the dwarf. Hawke and Merrill were behind Varric, and Fenris gave them a nod of greeting. “Why am I ‘handy’?”

“You can come with us to the Gallows. If you’re there, you can keep Daisy from wandering into the Knight Commander’s gardens, and give Hawke and me a good excuse to finish up our meeting with Meredith. Bringing you two along makes us seem busy.”

“These meetings are so boring,” Hawke said, sighing. 

“Then why do you go to them?” Merrill asked.

Hawke shrugged. “It’s what you do when you’re the Champion of the city. And when there’s no one else around to counter Meredith’s power.” She looked out across the water. “There’s the ferry; let’s go.”

It was a short ride across the water. Varric teased Merrill about the notoriety she had gained in the siege on the Hanged Man during the Qunari attack, and Hawke leaned against the rail with her arms folded, looking tired. Fenris tried to pretend he wasn’t watching Hawke. 

Fenris and Merrill were left waiting on a bench outside the branch of the Gallows that held Meredith’s office. Fenris leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, the heat and the sun and the lack of sleep combining to make him drowsy. Also, he hoped Merrill would think he was sleeping and not talk to him.

That hope, of course, was a vain one. She began chattering almost as soon as her chainmail-covered hindquarters landed on the marble seat. He ignored her, enjoying the heat of the day, until he heard her say “ … and of course, you’re in love with Hawke.”

His eyes flew open. “I am not.”

“Every time she looks away, you stare at her with those sad puppy eyes. Isn’t that love?”

Fenris shook his head. If he was this transparent to Merrill, what must Hawke see? He certainly wasn’t about to admit it, however. “There are no puppy eyes.”

“No? Because you look at Hawke the way Aveline looks at Donnic, the way Isabela used to look at the ships in the harbor, the way—“

“The way Varric looks at you?”

The hit scored. Merrill bit her lip and looked away. Fenris felt a pang of guilt that surprised him a little. 

“It’s true,” Merrill whispered. “How do you apologize to someone for not being able to be what he wants?”

There was real sorrow in her voice, and Fenris found himself pitying her, despite the dalliance with blood magic that made her a danger to every person she met. “Have you ever considered that perhaps you are what he wants?” 

She turned to look at him, her brow furrowed.

“You are a dream, ever unattainable. The happy ending to a tragic love story he will never write. Perhaps your very inability to return his interest makes you what he desires.”

Merrill blinked. “That was … poetic.”

Fenris could feel himself blush. It certainly had been. He’d been spending too much time around … people. Clearly.

“Will you not talk to Hawke?”

He bit back the sharp retort that came to his lips. Since Isabela left, he’d had no one to talk to. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to speak to Merrill. “How do you apologize to someone for almost getting them killed?”

“Almost …?” Merrill stared at him in confusion. Then her face cleared. “Oh! You mean the duel? Hawke doesn’t blame you for that.”

“She doesn’t? How do you know?”

“How could she? Because of you she saved Kirkwall.” Merrill shivered. “You didn’t see what the Qunari did in Lowtown—“

“I have seen what the Qunari can do.”

“Then you know what would have happened.”

Across the courtyard, Hawke and Varric emerged from the building, coming down the steps together.

Merrill looked back at Fenris. “If moping about that is why you’re so cross all the time, you should stop.” She got up off the bench, crossing the courtyard to meet Hawke and Varric, leaving Fenris to stare after her.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Hours later, Fenris kicked the last bit of rubble under a worn carpet, looking around the room. Yes, it should be fine. His mansion wasn’t the best location for their weekly games of Diamondback, but it was roomier than Sebastian’s monastic cell, quieter than Varric’s rooms at the Hanged Man, and didn’t come complete with an entire troop of guardsmen, as Donnic’s quarters would have. Anders was always invited by Varric, but he never actually came, which caused Fenris no sorrow whatsoever. Mostly it was just the four of them, although occasionally one of them brought a friend along. 

He shook out the card cloth, laying it across the table, and just in time. Sebastian and Varric were coming up the stairs together.

“No, really, what do they wear under them?”

“I don’t know, Varric. I never looked.”

“Sebastian. You live with an entire Chantry full of women, and you’ve never once tried to find out what they wear under their robes?” Varric threw his hands in the air. “What is wrong with you?”

Having grown used to Varric’s scorn over the years, Sebastian merely shrugged. He looked at Fenris. “I looked for you during the service, Fenris.”

“You should give this up, Sebastian. I am not going to become devout.”

“My friend, the Maker will never give up on you. I merely follow in His footsteps.”

Varric groaned. “Andraste’s rounded tush, I need a drink.”

Donnic, still somewhat hesitant even after several months of games, poked his head around the door. “Not starting without me, I hope?”

“Of course not.” Fenris handed Donnic a mug, and turned to give one to Donnic’s companion, a tall, dark-haired guardsman. “Jalen, I believe? Ale?”

“Uh, thanks.” Jalen accepted the drink. “Donnic’s told me a lot about you all.”

“Oh, then you know the elf here cheats.” Varric winked at Fenris.

“I do not cheat. I have no need to do so.”

“You’re missing out on the very spirit of the game,” Varric protested.

“I am? Then why is it that I so often end up with your coin?” Fenris raised an eyebrow, and Varric grumbled under his breath.

“Sodding supercilious elf. Let’s play cards.”

“As you wish.”

They sat down, and Fenris dealt the cards, studying his. He tossed a few coppers into the pot. Varric, looking a bit too hard at Fenris’s cards, tossed in his own coppers. Sebastian folded, as usual. He played only a few hands a night—Fenris suspected he came more for the male companionship than for the card-playing. 

“Aveline keeps wondering what I do on these evenings,” Donnic said, matching the bet.

“Have you told her yet?” Sebastian asked.

“No!” Varric looked from the Prince to the guardsman in horror. “You know what she’s like. She’d have to argue for an hour every time she lost. Eventually we’d have to let her win every hand just to keep her quiet.”

“The Captain is … forceful,” Jalen said, folding his hand and glancing sideways at Donnic.

“Forceful indeed.” Donnic smiled. He looked around the table, his eyes shining. “I would like you all to be the first to know, Aveline has agreed to become my wife.”

Sebastian clapped the guardsman on the back. “Wonderful news!” 

“Well, that’s the end of my guard serial,” Varric said. “Hm, wonder what I should write next?”

“You are good for one another,” Fenris said. “ _Gratulati_ **.”

Donnic colored slightly, never comfortable being the center of attention. He nodded his thanks to all of them and looked at his fellow guardsman. “Jalen, you should tell them your news, as well.”

“What news is that?” Varric sat forward, almost missing Fenris’s card turning up. He turned his own up before looking back at Jalen.

The guardsman flushed. “I … have the honor of attending the next Guardsmen’s Ball with the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Startled, Fenris’s hand jerked and the coins he was about to bet flew across the table. He used the ensuing scramble to recover his wits. Everyone else matched his bet, and he turned over his second card. “Magician, queen.” Confirming that his had been the best hand, he raked in the coins on the table.

Varric groaned, collecting the cards. “Why do I play with you again?”

“Because I force you to hone your skills.” Fenris caught the dwarf’s wrist, removing the Priestess the dwarf had been stuffing up his sleeve.

Grumbling, the dwarf dealt the cards.

As Jalen picked his up, he cleared his throat nervously. “I … was wondering. Since all of you are the Champion’s friends, uh, any thoughts on how I can … impress her?”

Impress her? This simpleton couldn’t impress Hawke if he tried. Although physically he was very much her type. Fenris studied his cards intently, aware of the dwarf’s smirk, Sebastian’s sympathetically averted gaze, and Donnic’s sudden coughing fit. 

“Elf, what do you think?” Varric asked, hard pressed to keep the mirth from his voice.

Fenris matched the current bet, although he had no idea what he had, for all that he was staring at the cards. “I suppose,” he began, striving for a casual tone, “that any man who involves himself with the Champion would bear the scrutiny of all Kirkwall.”

“You know, that’s true,” Sebastian said. “Remember all the gossip when she dated the Seneschal?”

“I … had forgotten she was involved with the Seneschal.” Jalen ran a hand around his collar. “So, she, um, likes that polished type?”

“Oh, yes, Hawke’s all about the polish,” Varric put in. He turned a card face-up. “Place your bets, gentlemen.”

Fenris called the bet. Perhaps Varric’s malicious streak was catching, or perhaps he wasn’t quite as prepared for Hawke to move on as he had thought. He leaned across the table, looking Jalen square in the eye. “I believe you may be on the right track. Continue to be deferential and do not attempt to take charge. She does not respond well to over-confidence.”

“Right. Yes. Okay.” Jalen sat back with a grin on his face. Donnic rolled his eyes, Sebastian frowned, and Varric practically chortled as he turned over the second Priestess. 

“I take it all back, elf. You’ve caught the spirit of the game surprisingly well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Good luck._  
>  ** _Congratulations._


	30. Year Three: Hearts

Aveline looked at her reflection with dissatisfaction. “If Donnic hasn’t reconsidered already, he will once he sees me in this … mess.” She tugged the sleeves farther up her shoulders.

“What are you talking about? You’re radiant!” Hawke pulled the sleeves down so that the wide dark blue velvet band around the top of the gown rested on Aveline’s upper arms, leaving her shoulders bare. “It’s perfect.”

“You really think so? I don’t want Donnic thinking he’s marrying some … flouncy wench.”

Hawke nearly choked trying not to laugh. “There is no way he would think that. You look elegant and lovely, not flouncy at all.” The gown truly suited her friend. It was a simple cream-colored dress that flared just slightly over Aveline’s hips, with a dark-blue cord tied loosely around the waist to match the velvet edge of the neckline. A crown of delphiniums took the place of the usual braided leather headband, Aveline’s hair falling loose over her shoulders. “Besides, given that the betting is all in favor of you getting married in armor, I think Donnic will be pleased that you wore a dress.” Hawke hesitated, then said, “It was nice of Isabela to send it.”

“Nice? Nice would have been coming home to get her ass kicked the way she deserves, and being here herself.” 

“I suppose. Maybe she thought she’d save the homecoming ass-kicking for sometime when it wouldn’t draw attention away from your wedding.”

Aveline snorted. “Isabela? Worried about attracting attention? That’ll be the day.”

“People change, Aveline.” 

“I suppose.” Aveline turned away from the mirror, smiling. “Thank you, Hawke. I’m glad you’re here. I don’t mind telling you, all those nobles make me nervous. Why did I have to invite them, again?”

“You’re the Captain of the Guard. With the Viscount … gone, you stand second only to the Seneschal in the defense of the citizens of Kirkwall. It’s an important duty, and don’t think the nobles haven’t noticed.”

“Right.” Aveline reached for her bouquet, a mixture of blue tulips and orange lilies to match the wedding colors—that they were guardsmen colors hadn’t been lost on anyone. “When is it your turn, my friend? Is Ser Theodore going to be taking you away?”

Hawke flushed, looking away. It was a pleasant change to have the embarrassed flush steal over her face, to feel the little frisson of excitement at the mention of his name. She’d been dating Theo for a month or so, and his were the first kisses she didn’t automatically compare to … someone else’s. Still … “I don’t see myself as Lady Evelyn of Wildervale any time soon. Besides,” she added in a more practical tone, “someone’s got to keep their eye on Meredith and the situation with the mages. It might as well be me. There isn’t much she can do to me.”

A knock sounded on the door. “Aveline?” Sebastian called. “Elthina wants to know if you’re ready or if she should have the choir restart the chant.” Humor was ill-concealed in his voice.

“I’m ready, blast you!” Aveline snapped, and Sebastian laughed.

“Come on out. Everyone’s assembled—it’s time to start the wedding march.”

Hawke took up her smaller bouquet, all tulips. The flowers had been her gift to the couple, grown specifically for this occasion. She’d spent hours on her knees worrying over each blossom. She gave Aveline’s hand a parting squeeze. “You are ready, aren’t you?”

Now that the moment was at hand, the nerves had receded. Aveline’s face shone. “Donnic is the right man for me.” She looked upward. “And wherever he is, I believe Wesley is pleased. It is more than enough.”

Biting her lip against the sudden surge of emotion—what wouldn’t she give to be as confidently in love as Aveline?—Hawke merely nodded, preceding the bride out the door.   
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Fenris pressed his back against the wall of the Chantry, trying not to listen to the beguiling music of the Chant. Sebastian’s constant attempts to strengthen his faith hadn’t entirely fallen on deaf ears. He wanted to let go of his anger against the Maker, to believe that there was a purpose even behind what had happened to him, but he didn’t feel it. Not yet. Perhaps if he could ever finish the letter he had started so many times and never sent, the one that asked Varania to come to him … if he set eyes on his sister, felt that connection to his former self, maybe then he could believe.

His thoughts were cut short by the fanfare that signaled the entrance of the bride and her attendant. Turning his head, he was glad that, as usual, he was in shadow. For once he could simply watch, drink his fill of the sight of Hawke in whatever hideous concoction of a dress Aveline had chosen, pretend he had some right to look.

The first sight of her struck him breathless. Her dress was orange velvet in a shade that wouldn’t have flattered most women, but Hawke’s rich brown hair and creamy skin glowed against it. The dress clung to her curves and emphasized her height and grace. Her hair was drawn up in the familiar bun, the wisps already escaping to straggle around her face. And her eyes shone with happiness for her friend.

Fenris was unable to stop himself from imagining that look directed at him. The resultant pang of loss hit him like a physical blow. He watched Hawke as she moved the rest of the way down the aisle, unable to tear his eyes away from her, completely forgetting that he was there in support of the bride and groom.   
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Hawke held both bouquets, watching in fascination as Donnic’s head bent toward Aveline’s, as her friend’s reserve was swept away by a wonder and awe Hawke had never seen in her face before. The assembled guests applauded as Elthina pronounced the benediction over the newly married couple’s heads. Amidst the cheers as Donnic and Aveline walked down the aisle together, Hawke turned and saw Fenris at the back of the room. She hadn’t realized that she was avoiding looking at him until she glimpsed him by accident, and was unprepared for the sudden longing she felt. Swallowing, she moved her gaze hastily to Theo, whose handsome face lit up with a smile when her eyes caught his. 

But she couldn’t clear her mind of the image of Fenris, severe but striking in his new black armor. “I shall not dress in flimsy formal clothing. I leave it to the rest of you to court danger in such a fashion,” he had said, to which Varric had responded by throwing up his hands and insisting on at least commissioning Fenris a new set of armor. Hawke wished he hadn’t. In formal noble attire Fenris would have looked ridiculous; in his usual armor she could have looked over him without a second glance; in his new armor he was dramatic and forbidden and sensual.

Resolutely she dragged her thoughts away from Fenris, smiling back at Theo.  
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The reception was an interesting mix of guardsmen and their families, the nobility, and Hawke’s team. Varric and Hawke fit right in, as did Sebastian, while Fenris kept himself largely out of sight, standing against the wall. Anders kept getting into arguments about the state of affairs in Darktown until people learned to leave him strictly alone, staring into a glass of water at his table. Merrill floated around the room in a lovely gauzy green dress and was quite a hit on the dance floor, despite being an elf.

While Theo took a turn dancing with Merrill, Hawke stood with Varric. “Dance?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.

“Hawke. What would Bianca think?” He took a sip of champagne from his fluted glass before looking carefully around them. Satisfied that they were alone enough to speak, he said quietly, “Tomwise says he got another letter. From Tevinter.”

“You think he reached her?”

“Tomwise’s friend talked to her. She’s scared and angry.”

Hawke sighed. “I suppose that’s to be expected. Let’s keep an eye on the shipping manifests, make sure if she does come she’s not bringing unwanted company.” The last thing she wanted was for any meeting Fenris set up with his long-lost sister to bring Danarius circling around like a shark. 

“You got it.”

“Sure Tomwise won’t tell him we know everything?”

“As much coin as Tomwise has lost to him?” Varric chuckled. “Not a chance.”

“Any word on Isabela?”

“I expect to see her at the bar every time I come downstairs.”

“You think she stayed away to avoid ruining Aveline’s wedding?”

Varric snorted. “What’s Wildervale put in your champagne? You’re turning into a starry-eyed romantic.”

Watching Theo bow to Merrill as the dance ended, Hawke smiled. She looked back at Varric. “Would that be so bad?”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Fenris was perfectly content to stand by the wall, nodding cordially to those he knew, replying to the few who spoke to him in the midst of their merriment. Mostly he watched, lost in his own thoughts. Other than a few rustic tunes he assumed were Fereldan, he recognized many of the melodies the musicians played. Danarius had insisted that Fenris learn to dance impeccably—it had amused his Master to have Fenris dance among his guests, Fenris’s forbidding demeanor and the fact that he was an elf discomfiting many but none willing to admit to it in the face of such a powerful magister. Occasionally as he watched the dancers now he found his foot restlessly tapping to the beat.

In a swirl of cream-colored skirts a flushed and laughing Aveline came suddenly up to him. “This is my wedding day.”

“I am aware of that.” She seemed to have imbibed quite a bit of the excellent champagne being served, Varric’s gift, and Fenris couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was good to see her happy this way.

“You haven’t danced.”

“I am aware of that, also.” The smile disappeared, as he suspected he knew what was to come next.

“I say you should come dance. Now.”

Fenris sighed. “I would infinitely prefer not to.”

“Yes, but I’m the bride, and I would inf- infi—I say so!” She reached for his arm and tugged.

He looked up, listening to the song, remembering the dance, an intricate country dance that had men and women moving in opposing steps, changing partners. Amongst the couples lining up for the dance he glimpsed Hawke, laughing at something Sebastian had said. “No,” he said to Aveline.

Her mouth turned down mulishly. “Denying the bride on her wedding day is bad luck.”

It was a common enough saying. But since Fenris had never been particularly superstitious, the more compelling argument was that Aveline was his friend, and she had never asked something of him before. “I’m an elf,” he said, in a last desperate attempt to convince her.

Aveline laughed, sounding somewhat less wine-soaked. “So is Merrill. That hasn’t stopped her, and no one seems to have noticed.” 

Apparently he was not going to get out of this. “Very well.”

As he walked with Aveline toward the dance floor, he noted the placement of the couples and calculated dance steps. “Here,” he said abruptly to Aveline, motioning her to a spot between Guardsman Brennan and Flora Harimann. This should keep him from coming in more than passing contact with Hawke, he judged, taking his place between Seneschal Bran and a minor noble whose name he didn’t know.

When the bride was ready, the musicians stopped, allowing a pause before launching again into the opening strains of the dance. All along the line, men and women bowed to one another. Fenris moved in the remembered steps, taking the hand of one woman, ducking with her under the raised arms of another couple, then handing her off and extending his arm to another woman, twirling her effortlessly. He lost himself in the rhythms, enjoying himself despite his intention to remain aloof, and so was completely off his guard when he executed the last of a complicated series of steps and came face to face with Hawke. 

For a moment he faltered. Then he eased an arm around her waist, his other hand holding hers. It was a slow portion of the dance, the two of them so close he could feel her breath on his cheek. He was aware of every movement she made, the slight brush of her body against his an exquisite torment. His hand, splayed across the smooth velvet that covered her back, moved of its own volition, the memory of the even softer skin beneath the dress causing him to shift his lower body carefully away from hers, lest she feel how easily she affected him. How he had misjudged the steps to end up here with her, he didn’t know; he only knew that his mind and body were divided between two equally strong impulses—to flee from the room, or to turn his head those scant few inches and kiss her until she melted against him. Or slapped him, which seemed somewhat more possible as she moved stiffly, her head carefully turned away to avoid even the chance of their eyes meeting. It was no less than he deserved.

Fenris heard the change in the music that indicated this portion of the dance would soon be over. Despair filled him. Had he really thought he could go the rest of his life and never feel what it was like to be close to her again? He let her go, bowing before her and turning to the next woman. As he promenaded with … Merrill, he noticed with some surprise, completely failing to feel the horror he would have expected at the blood mage’s touch, he was glad of his Master’s training. Only that kept his feet moving in the proper steps, his mind across the room with Hawke.

It was a glance at Theodore of Wildervale, the man as captivated by Hawke as he himself was, that decided him. He was not giving her up this easily into the arms of another man, slinking away like a slave. He would go home and finish the letter to Varania inviting her to come to Kirkwall. He would meet his sister, facing down his Master, if necessary, and then he would go to Hawke and beg her for forgiveness. He prayed it wasn’t too late.   
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Hawke stumbled, apologizing profusely to the young man whose arms held her waist. The effort of dancing with Fenris had taken more out of her than it should have. That was over, she reminded herself. They didn’t care for each other any longer.

But it was hard to remember that with her body still humming with excitement. He had been affected by the dance, too, she knew he had, and she had had to work at remaining composed and aloof when all she really wanted was to turn her face to his, so close, and kiss him until he pulled her against him, until he saw that what was between them hadn’t ended; maybe would never end. But if he could pretend he wasn’t aroused, so could she, and she had kept her gaze carefully over his shoulder.

It was a relief when the dance ended and she could return to Theo, who had been chatting with a blond noble. The noble gave her a chilly bow before stalking off. 

Theo smiled, putting a hand on her cheek. “You look flushed, Eve. Are you well?”

An hour ago, his touch and the casual nickname would have caused her heart to flutter. But now, with her skin still tingling from the press of Fenris’s hand on her back, the small caress she still wasn’t sure she had felt, Theo left her unstirred as a pond on a windless day. Fenris, she thought with despair, had been the ocean, waves of sensation ebbing and flowing ceaselessly. Damn Fenris! Two minutes in his arms had spoiled everything she’d spent more than three years achieving. Looking into Theo’s eyes, she knew she would have to end it soon. It wasn’t fair to a man so thoughtful and caring to look at him with eyes that yearned to see another man’s face.

For now, she would pretend. And so she smiled at Theo, leaning into his touch, and said, yes, she was very well indeed.


	31. Danarius

Varric burst into Hawke’s room, where she was spending the rainy summer afternoon curled up with a book. “She’s here.”

“Who’s here?”

“The elf’s sister.”

Hawke dropped the book, getting to her feet. “How do you know?”

“She’s staying in the Hanged Man. Alone.”

“No Danarius?” Hope surged in Hawke’s chest. Maybe Fenris would be allowed a peaceful reunion with his sister after all. 

The whole team knew Fenris had sent Varania a hefty chunk of coin to come to Kirkwall—not only had Tomwise told Varric everything he’d heard from his sailor friend, but Aveline had been back from her honeymoon for all of two days when Fenris asked her to keep a quiet eye out for a female elf traveling from Tevinter. Hawke had gone to great lengths to make sure Fenris didn’t know they were all aware of what was going on. Since this was something he clearly wanted to do on his own, she didn’t want to ruin that for him, and she thought they had a better chance of counteracting any plans made by Danarius if Fenris didn’t know what they were up to. She felt a small amount of guilt at deceiving Fenris this way, but she wasn’t about to take the chance of losing him to his former master, no matter what it took.

Varric shook his head. “No sign of a Tevinter magister. Tomwise’s friend says she kept to herself through the voyage—scared to bits, I guess.”

“Have you seen her?”

“No. Donnic came to find me as soon as the ship docked. Speaking of, Aveline’s at the elf’s now, reporting.”

“I’d better get over there.”

“Don’t you want to let him meet his sister on his own?” 

Hawke stopped with her breastplate half on, looking at Varric over the top of it. “And have him walk into an ambush by himself? Not a chance.”

“I’ll pick up the Choirboy as long as I’m in Hightown and head back to the Hanged Man.”

Hawke sat down on the bed, pulling on her boots. “You don’t think Danarius would try to ambush us in the Hanged Man, of all places, do you? Assuming he’s even in Kirkwall?”

“No, that’d be crazy,” Varric said. “I just thought the elf might need some sympathetic company after he meets his sister … and for some reason, he actually likes the Choirboy. Besides, can’t hurt to have a little backup. Just in case.”

“Good thinking.” Hawke lifted her sword down from the brackets.

“Don’t you think a fully armed and armored Champion might scare his sister?” 

Hawke shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if it does. Danarius isn’t the only person in Kirkwall I might need to defend myself against.”

She parted ways with Varric at the foot of the Chantry steps, taking the stairs up into Hightown Estates two at a time and letting herself into Fenris’s house. She could hear his voice raised in frustration as soon as she’d stepped inside.

“I need to know if it’s a trap!”

“And I told you I can’t tell you for certain. I only know that she seemed to be unaccompanied when she entered the city. I’m the Captain of the Guard, Fenris, not your personal information service.” Aveline appeared on the landing, her frown clearing when she saw Hawke. “Oh, good, you’re here. You deal with him.” She seemed about to say more, but Hawke, remembering Fenris’s sensitive hearing, put her finger on her lips and shook her head. Aveline mouthed “Hanged Man” and Hawke nodded before continuing on up the stairs.

Fenris was leaning over the desk, staring down at the wood as though some message lay there. He looked up as Hawke came in. 

“Trouble?” 

“Yes!” He took a visible breath to calm himself. “It’s my sister. I never told you, but I contacted her. It took some convincing, but eventually I was able to persuade her that I am … whoever I am, and I sent her coin enough to come meet me. And now she is here!”

“And you’re worried that Danarius knows.” Hawke felt another twinge of guilt as she kept up the pretense that she didn’t already know everything he was telling her. 

Fenris groaned in frustration. “The more I try to convince myself that he doesn’t, the more I am certain he must. How could he not?” He paced back and forth behind the desk for a few moments. “Venhedis!” he said at last, lifting his green eyes to meet Hawke’s. “Come with me,” he said, and she could hear how much it pained him that he needed to ask for her help. “I … I need you there when I meet her, Evelyn.”

“Of course,” she said with relief. She’d have let him go alone if he’d insisted on it, but it wouldn’t have been easy.

He seemed surprised at her ready agreement. “She is at the Hanged Man.”

“All right.” Hawke’s eyes fell on the faded velvet band he still wore. She wished that band, and the feelings she believed it symbolized, gave her the right to hold him and tell him she would support him no matter what happened. Stubborn damned elf. Once they’d dealt with his sister, there were going to be some changes, Hawke promised herself. “No time like the present.”

“Right.” Fenris took his sword down, sheathing it on his back. He led the way out of the mansion.

In the Hanged Man, Varric was trying to make conversation with Sebastian and failing utterly. The Prince met Hawke’s eye over the dwarf’s head and winked at her. It was a long-standing joke between them that Sebastian pretended to be just as boring as Varric insisted on thinking he was. 

Fenris didn’t seem to see any of them. He was studying the scrap of paper with Varania’s room number as though he hadn’t been in the Hanged Man thousands of times. His steps were unusually hesitant as he moved up the stairs and down the hall.

Hawke could see the way Fenris’s hand shook as he lifted it and knocked on the door. Her own hand was reaching out to touch him, to reassure him, when the door opened. The red-haired elf who stood on the other side looked at Fenris warily, but with no surprise. 

Fenris, on the other hand, was utterly stunned. “Varania?” he breathed, his eyes misting over. “I— I remember you …”

“Come in,” Varania said, stepping back to let him in. This reunion didn’t seem to be stirring any emotions in her, and the hackles rose on the back of Hawke’s neck. Something wasn’t right here. Her suspicions were heightened when Varania tried to close the door behind Fenris. Hawke put her hand out to stop it, stepping into the room. Varania looked at her in confusion and distress. “I … think Leto and I need to be alone.”

“Leto?” Hawke closed the door behind her, having no intention of leaving.

Varania tore her eyes away from Hawke, turning her face toward Fenris, her gaze hovering somewhere around his chin. “Leto,” she repeated. “That’s your name.” 

Fenris was still far away, lost in the suddenly reclaimed memory. “We played in the courtyard.” Any thoughts he’d had of ambush had clearly fled in the reality of his sister’s presence. “While Mother worked.” He hesitated. “Is she—“

“No.” Varania bit her lip at the mention of their mother. She looked away, her head bowed.

“What’s wrong?” Fenris asked gently, stepping toward his sister. “Why are you—“

His voice was cut off as a connecting door was thrown open from the next room, and a tall man in a dark grey robe stepped in, flanked by two men in the armor of Tevinter slave-hunters.

Fenris’s mouth dropped open, and he took a step backward. Hawke’s jaw clenched. They should have known Danarius would be a step ahead of them. Why hadn’t they planned this better, prepared for the possibility? They’d been so certain Danarius would want to take the lay of the land, catch Fenris unawares outside. Stupid arrogant sods, they’d been, thinking the magister couldn’t ambush them here in the Hanged Man.

Danarius looked at Fenris with flat, cold grey eyes. “My little Fenris, so predictable.” His voice seeped over Hawke like rancid oil. “It’s time to come home now.”

“No …” But it wasn’t a defiance, it was a moan of pain and betrayal. Fenris looked at Varania, anger and defeat in his eyes. “You led him here.”

“You mustn’t blame your sister, Fenris. She did only what any good Imperial citizen should.”

Hawke was thinking rapidly, trying to come up with a way to get a message to Varric. While she and Fenris on their own should be able to manage two slave hunters and a blood mage, she had to factor in the possibility that Danarius held power over Fenris that he wouldn’t be able to resist.

“I’m sorry, Leto,” Varania was saying, with the first emotion Hawke had heard in her voice. “He—he said he would make me a magister.”

Fenris’s sister was a mage? Huh. 

The revelation snapped Fenris out of his state of shock. He advanced on his sister. “You sold out your own brother to become a magister?”

“I had nothing!” she cried, and the anger brought a resemblance to Fenris out in her face. 

Danarius chuckled. “I can see it’s going to be an entertaining voyage home. Let’s go, Fenris.”

“Not going to happen,” Hawke said, crossing her arms.

The magister’s eyes rested on her with cold appraisal. “The Champion of Kirkwall, I presume. Fenris, you have been most fortunate in your new master.” 

“Fenris is a free man.”

“Oh, but you wish he wasn’t, don’t you?” The grey eyes seemed to bore into her. Hawke shivered with revulsion, and Danarius smiled. “The lad is highly skilled, isn’t he?”

“Shut your mouth!” Fenris shouted, his fists clenching and his markings flaring. 

The amusement faded from Danarius’s face. “You will remember to call me ‘master’ before I am through with you,” he snarled.

“Never!”

A subtle nod from Danarius sent the slavers forward. Fenris ripped the beating heart out of the first one, and Hawke’s blade took the head off the second. Varania shrieked, covering her face and shrinking back against the wall. 

A rage demon burst through the floor in a shower of sparks. Neither Hawke nor Fenris was even breathing hard as they dispatched it and turned to face Danarius. The mage raised his eyebrows. “I see the reports of your prowess have not been exaggerated.” He glanced at the door, but at the very least, Hawke could be sure no reinforcements were coming from that direction. From the sounds rising up through the floorboards, she guessed Varric and Sebastian were taking care of Danarius’s backup, no doubt ably assisted by Corff and the regular denizens of the Hanged Man. Corff hated it when mercenaries and foreigners used his bar as a battleground, and most of those who spent time in the Hanged Man were skilled enthusiasts in the use of weaponry and loved a good scrap.

A look of displeasure broke the mask of civility on Danarius’s face as he realized he was on his own. He raised his arms and a swirl of red rose from the body of one of the fallen slave-hunters. Shades rose from the corners of the room, closing in on the fighters. Hawke met Fenris’s eyes, a slight movement of her head signaling her intentions. His eyes widened slightly in response. Hawke sprinted toward one of the shades, her blade slicing through its gelatinous body, while Fenris went straight for Danarius, leaping into the air. He stumbled and fell to the side when his blade hit a shield Danarius had hastily thrown up. 

The same kind of consuming rage that had taken over Fenris when he faced Hadriana took control of him now. He was utterly silent, battering the shield with his sword, his arms moving faster than Hawke would have imagined they could move. She continued to concentrate on the shades, but she was aware of Danarius gradually being forced backward by the sheer frenzy of Fenris’s attack. She had just thrust her blade into the center of a shade when she heard the familiar hiss and crackle of a rage demon rising up through the floor, directly behind Fenris, its flaming arms reaching for him.

“No!” Hawke shouted, whirling in place and striking desperately at the demon, the tip of her sword scoring its body. Fenris turned, her cry having broken the hold hysteria had on him, and between them they finished off the demon.

The shower of sparks faded into the floor, the smell of scorched wood heavy in the air. 

Danarius was chuckling, his eyes glowing with sudden triumph as they studied Hawke. “She fights for you so fiercely, my little wolf,” he said, almost caressingly. Then, more sharply, “Kill her.”

Fenris lifted his blade in automatic response to the familiar commanding voice. Hawke’s fingers tensed on her sword, but relaxed when she saw Fenris give a small shake of his head, stepping toward Danarius instead of toward her.

Dark anger crossed the magister’s face, and he made a small cut in his palm, closing his fist so the blood ran over his fingers. “Kill her,” he said again.

Hawke could see the fine tremors in Fenris’s body as he fought the blood magic. He turned toward her, his face a mask. She stayed poised, her blade in the air, waiting to see how far this would go. She didn’t want to hurt Fenris unless she absolutely had to. 

“Kill her!” Danarius’s fist was shaking, and Hawke could practically see the lines of tension between him and Fenris.

His green eyes blank, Fenris took another step toward Hawke, raising the sword over his head. She stayed where she was, balanced on the balls of her feet, prepared to kick him in the groin to incapacitate him, a move he wouldn’t expect from her, and then lunge for Danarius. But as he lifted his arms, the faded red band around his wrist passed in front of Fenris’s eyes. He blinked, and an expression of utter self-loathing passed over his face. 

“Do it now!” Danarius said, not having seen what Hawke had seen.

Fenris’s eyes met hers in mute shame and apology before he turned to Danarius. “No.” It was clear that the act and the word had taken a great deal of willpower.

The magister’s jaw dropped. “What did you say?”

“I said ‘no’. I am not your slave,” Fenris snarled. He thrust with his great blade, and only the stumbling steps Danarius hastily took backward saved him from being skewered. Fenris pressed the attack, but Danarius had recovered his self-possession and a blast of energy threw Fenris across the room.

Hawke was moving, too, her sword sweeping the air, when Danarius sliced open his arm, the resulting gout of blood splattering Hawke’s face. Immediately she felt the intense pressure of a crushing prison close in on her, squeezing her body until it felt as though her bones would crack. She couldn’t see Fenris from the position she was in, but from the cat-with-the-cream expression on the magister’s face, it appeared that her predicament had effectually immobilized Fenris, as well. She concentrated on regulating her breathing and ignoring the pain.

“Tell me, Fenris,” Danarius said, “does the Champion … care for you?”

“No.” 

Hawke could imagine Fenris’s expression, anger and frustration and determination mingling. She wished she knew if he truly believed she no longer cared for him, or if that was a lie for Danarius’s benefit.

“Doesn’t she.” Danarius’s eyes were on Hawke’s face and he smirked at her as he asked Fenris the next question. “But you care for her, don’t you?”

“No.” 

Danarius snapped his fingers, the prison tightening around her, and Hawke couldn’t help the groan that escaped her along with more of her carefully measured air. “Don’t lie to me,” the magister said. “Do you love her?”

Fenris muttered something Hawke couldn’t hear.

“I didn’t hear you. Speak up.”

“Yes.” He ground the word out between clenched teeth.

“Yes, what?” There was no answer, and Danarius shook his head, clicking his tongue. “I imagine it must be very hard for her to breathe. Don’t you?” His voice sharpened. “Do you love her?”

“Yes!” Defeat weighted down Fenris’s voice. “I love her.”

Hawke felt tears welling up, and she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. Danarius had taken enough from them, she wouldn’t give him these tears. 

The magister smiled coldly. “Imagine that. Little Fenris in love. It hurt to say that in front of me, didn’t it?”

“What do you want, Danarius?”

The smile went away. “I want you to call me Master.”

Panic filled Hawke. It was harder to breathe, blackness teasing the edges of her vision, and she was desperately afraid Fenris would give up for her sake. Immobilized as she was, she had no way to prevent him from throwing his life away. She struggled against the crushing prison, trying to open her mouth, to speak, but it only tightened.

And then over Danarius’s shoulder she thought she saw something move. Her vision was beginning to blur, so she couldn’t be certain if it had been a shadow or a mere trick of the light.

“Which is it?” Danarius asked. “Does she perish here, so that you and I can have our final battle and I can drag you back to Minrathous in chains, or do you bow your head and call me Master, and I allow the Champion to keep her life?” He raised his hand, ready to shrink the prison further, but before Fenris could speak there was a soft sound behind Danarius and the magister crumpled to the ground.

Isabela contemptuously wiped her dagger on Danarius’s robes before she sheathed it. She looked at Fenris. “He’s all yours.” Glaring over her shoulder at Varania, she added, “Break that bastard’s spell, if you feel like living.”

Varania’s hands shook as she slid a dagger out of her belt, slicing open her palm and using the blood to free Hawke from the crushing prison. Fenris stopped in mid-step, staring at his sister with stricken eyes as she performed the blood magic.

Isabela moved swiftly to Hawke’s side and caught her as she started to slump to the floor. “Good timing,” Hawke said, wheezing.

“I do like to make an entrance.”

“I should kick your ass for running out on me.”

“Do it later. Right now you’d hit like my grandmother.”

Fenris cast a glance at the two women over his shoulder to assure himself of Hawke’s safety and then stepped over Danarius’s prone body. He lifted the mage, his markings blazing, and with a single swift motion tore out Danarius’s throat. His hands shaking, Fenris looked into the dead face. “You are no longer my master.” Dropping the body to the floor, he ripped out the magister’s heart, tearing it in two and squeezing both halves in his fingers until there was no blood left in them.

Varania cowered against the wall, watching in horror as Fenris satisfied himself that Danarius would never come after him again.

At last he turned to look at Isabela and Hawke. The pirate grinned at him. “Told you I’d come back.”

Fenris took a deep breath, the tension draining from his body. “A timely arrival. I am grateful for your assistance.”

“I bet you are. I’ll tell you my price later.”

“Hm.” He glanced in Hawke’s direction, unable to make eye contact with her. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” She was better than fine. She was elated. But now didn’t seem to be the time to explore what Danarius’s death, and Fenris’s forced admission, might mean for them, not with Fenris’s hands still covered in his former master’s blood.

“And you!” Fenris spun to face his sister, but Varania was gone, the open door testifying to which direction she taken. He hurried after her, and Hawke and Isabela followed a bit more slowly, Hawke still short of breath.

They found Varania in the bar, staring into the cool gaze of Bianca. Corff and some of the regulars were stacking up the bodies of a cadre of Tevinter slave-hunters while Norah mopped the floor, complaining under her breath about the mess and the smell.

“Oy, Hawke, you payin’ for all this?” Corff shouted, and she waved at him in agreement, her eyes on Varania, who stared at Fenris in sullen despair.

“Nothing left to say to your brother?” Fenris asked, bitterness masking the hurt in his voice.

“I saw what you did to Danarius. Why would you treat me any better?”

“You are my sister,” Fenris said. “I would have given you everything.”

She shook her head. “You don’t know what I’ve had to do since Mother died. This was my only chance!”

“Becoming a magister, a blood mage, was a chance?”

“You know what life in Tevinter is like! A powerful patron like Danarius could have saved me from … from …” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed. “But now you’ve ruined that, just like you ruin everything, and I have to go back to Tevinter and find another master!”

“No. You won’t,” Fenris said in a soft, pained voice. His markings lit, his hand hovering over Varania’s chest. “Sister or not, I cannot let you do that.”

Varania shrank back, looking over Fenris’s shoulder at Hawke. “Make him stop! Please, tell him to stop!”

“Fenris,” Hawke said. “This is your call … but ask yourself if she’s worth this memory.”

He hesitated, his eyes on his sister’s face. 

“Elf,” Varric said. “Fenris. Trust me, I know how much you want to do this … but it won’t help. It … Nothing will get any better, and you’ll have closed off your past entirely.” The dwarf’s brown eyes had lost their usual merry light. Hawke looked at him with sympathy—he covered what he felt so well that even she rarely saw the toll Bartrand’s betrayal and death had taken on him.

Fenris didn’t turn, but the glow of the markings faded. He took a step away from Varania. “Get out.”

“Gladly,” she said, her bravado returning once she was no longer in danger. In the door, she stopped, turning back to him. “Do you know how you got those markings?”

He looked at his hands, stained with Danarius’s blood and shining with lyrium. “I can only assume it was a punishment.”

Varania laughed bitterly. “Hardly. You fought for the privilege, and you used the boon to have Mother and I freed. But freedom was no boon. Looking at you now, I think you got the best of the bargain.” And she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her.

There was a pause after she had gone, and then Varric clapped Isabela on the back. “Rivaini! I thought you’d never come back.” 

“I wasn’t sure,” she said, her eyes on Hawke. “You going to kick my ass now, sweet thing?”

Hawke started to shrug, but the memory of Isabela’s betrayal and deceit hadn’t lost its sting. She balled her fist, punching Isabela squarely in the stomach. “Better than your grandmother?” she asked as the pirate doubled over.

“Grandma was always better with a dagger,” Isabela said breathlessly. “Taught me everything I know.” She straightened up. “We good now?”

“We are, but when you see Aveline, you should duck.”

“Will do.”

“Care to tell me how you managed to be on the spot at just the right time?”

“A bit late, I thought,” Fenris put in.

“Sorry about that,” Isabela said. “I stowed away on the ship Danarius came over in—did you know he’s been here for three days? Your spy network needs work, Varric.”

“What can I say? We need you.”

Isabela smiled down at the dwarf. “I didn’t know what he had in mind, so I kept my head down. I knew he was expecting more slave-hunters to show up, which is where I was today—almost didn’t get back here in time after I heard one of them talking about the ambush. Came in the back way, snuck into Danarius’s room … and you know the rest.”

Varric and Sebastian dragged Isabela off to the bar, where she accepted a mug from Corff and launched into a long tale of some adventure she’d had in Nevarra. Fenris and Hawke were left alone. Weariness was evident in every line of his body. “I thought discovering my past would bring me a sense of belonging,” he said. “But I was wrong. Magic has tainted that, too—there is nothing there for me. I am alone.”

“Fenris …” Evelyn began, reaching for him, but his eyes met hers and the words died in her throat at the look in his eyes. She saw tenderness there, and love, but also resignation and sorrow. “You have friends,” she said instead, but she knew it was the wrong thing as soon as she’d said it.

“Is that what we are?” he whispered, the words going through her like a spear.

She wanted to take it back, to tell him how she felt. But now was really not the time, not here in the face of everything he’d lost and won today, not in the bar of the Hanged Man with the sounds of Isabela and Norah the waitress having a drinking contest behind them.

“Never mind,” he said, shaking his head and looking away from her. “Let’s go. I need to get out of here.”

It didn’t escape her notice that for the first time, he was running with her, instead of away from her. “Right behind you.”


	32. What About Now

It wasn’t that Fenris didn’t appreciate time spent with his friends, but the combination of Aveline and Varric wasn’t a typical one, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than just a social call. They’d been sitting in his chairs for twenty minutes now, and he was beginning to wonder how long they intended to stay. He was anxious to see Hawke, to talk to her about yesterday’s defeat of Danarius and find out whether anything had changed between them with his former master’s death.

“Seriously, elf, the world is your oyster! You aren’t just going to sit around in Kirkwall, are you?” Varric’s voice had reached a nearly strident pitch, and Fenris raised an eyebrow. If the dwarf was so fond of the idea of traveling the world, why didn’t he leave Kirkwall? 

Fenris perched on the edge of his desk. It occurred to him that he had never sat here before. He felt curiously light, sitting on top of the furniture this way. “What would you suggest I do?”

Varric shook his head in annoyance, and Fenris no longer had any doubt that this visit was less to congratulate him on his newfound freedom and more to quiz him on his intentions. “Anything! Maybe you could find a decent place to live. Surely you don’t want to stay in this pit. Do you?” Fenris raised both eyebrows at that, and Varric hastily added, “Not that you haven’t … uh, fixed it up nicely …” 

“It needs to be condemned,” Aveline corrected him. “And my ability to convince the Seneschal otherwise is coming to an end.” Her expression was direct, and he read an ultimatum there loud and clear.

“Thank you for your efforts, Aveline.” 

“You know, with Danarius dead and this house to all intents and purposes abandoned, you could assert a claim; live here legally, instead of haunting Hightown and letting a highly coveted piece of real estate fall to pieces.”

She was more subtle than Varric, which Fenris found somewhat surprising, but the underlying theme was the same. “I will give it some thought.”

Aveline didn’t look particularly pleased with that response, and Varric threw his hands into the air. “So you’re staying? But you could go anywhere!”

Fenris’s attention was caught by the scrape of a boot on a loose tile. He knew that step, and relief spread through him. He had planned to go to her, but it would be easier to say what he needed to say now that she’d come to him. His eyes on the doorway, he said, “Perhaps I don’t wish to go anywhere.”

Varric turned his head, following Fenris’s gaze, as Hawke appeared in the doorway. She took in the tableau in front of her with amusement.

“Think about what I said, will you, Fenris?” Aveline said, getting up from her chair. She put her hand on Varric’s shoulder, and the dwarf winced, getting to his feet as well.

“I see why Isabela calls you ‘lady man-hands’,” he muttered to Aveline, who squeezed harder, all but pulling him toward the door. Hawke leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, watching them. Varric submitted to being hustled from the room. As their steps receded down the stairs, Fenris could hear Varric remarking, “Freedom must be a great burden, I guess.”

And then he was alone with her. Fenris stayed where he was, listening for the closing of the front door, wishing his thoughts were working properly so he could practice what he wanted to say. This was the moment he had dreamed of and dreaded and despaired of ever experiencing. When Hawke left today, he would know, one way or the other. And he couldn’t seem to think clearly at all, not with her standing in front of him. She wasn’t in armor, which seemed like a good sign, but the sight of her in regular clothes never failed to raise his heartrate. 

Hawke craned her neck around the doorframe. “They’re gone.” They both knew it would be very like Varric to remain, listening. “What was that all about?”

“It was nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing. It sounded like Varric and Aveline are a lot more excited about your plans for freedom than you are.”

Fenris frowned. That hadn’t been his impression; he’d assumed they were there on Hawke’s behalf. He thought back to what they had said. It was true, they hadn’t specifically mentioned Hawke; they’d mostly been talking about him and his future. Had he misread their intentions completely? Had they been there in support of him, as his friends? He groaned, feeling like an ungrateful fool. 

Hawke smiled at him. “Still getting used to the idea of freedom?”

“I … suppose I hadn’t thought to be excited. I am free, yes, and Danarius is dead. But instead of satisfaction, I feel … emptiness.” The words came slowly as he looked inside himself. Until he’d started speaking, he hadn’t known he felt this way, but as always with her, the thoughts came forth unbidden. “Purposeless.”

Hawke took a few steps toward him, frowning thoughtfully. “You once told me that a slave doesn’t think of the future; that a slave thinks only of the next hour, and of his master’s wishes. A free person thinks of the next hour, but doesn’t know what it will hold, and has no one else’s wishes for guidance. What you decide in one minute can alter the next and the next until years later you wonder what might have been different if you had made another decision.” She looked up and out the window, her eyes sad, and he imagined she must be thinking of her family, and the consequences her own decisions had had. She looked back at him. “You’ve been thinking as a slave, letting Danarius’s existence guide your decisions, looking no further than the day he would die. But now you’re free, and you have a whole future to think of.”

The truth of it stung—he had been thinking as a slave, all this time, saving freedom as a shining goal to attain and never thinking what he might do with it. If he were being honest, he had never really believed it would come. The best outcome he had considered was dying in the attempt to kill Danarius; he had never dared to hope for more.

“You are right. I have never contemplated my future; I never thought I had one. Even now … I went searching for my sister to find my past, to discover who I was, but that avenue is closed. I may never know more than I know today about who I was and what I had been. I have not even an enemy to look toward as a goal.”

“Perhaps that just means there’s nothing holding you back.” 

Life without restraints? He didn’t know how to begin such a thing. “An interesting thought,” he conceded. “I am sorry if I seem bitter or recalcitrant. It is difficult to overlook the stain that magic has left on my life, to move forward without fear.”

“Magic? What does magic have to do with it?”

“Magic has everything to do with it! For magic I left my family, magic took my memories and turned me into this,” he held his arms out, the lyrium shining in his ungauntleted palms. “Magic is why my sister betrayed me to my worst enemy!”

“Do you think you’re the only one who has ever lost anything because of magic?” The image of her mother hung in the space between them, and Fenris was the first to look away. “As for fear, what is there left to be afraid of? Danarius is dead.”

“Yes, and the entire nation of Tevinter will now see me as a masterless slave, a rare and valuable commodity to procure toward their own advancement. If anything, his life kept me safe, because there was no profit in anyone else coming after me.”

“No!” Hawke shouted, her fists clenching at her sides. She took a deep breath and turned away, bracing her hands on the windowframe. “I’ve waited all this time for Danarius to be dead; I will not stand by and let you hide from your life out of fear of the entire Imperium.”

“I have to face the realities of the situation, to prepare for the possibility.”

“Do you have to let it keep you from moving on with your life?”

“Perhaps not.” He was terrified to broach the subject that filled the air unspoken, but he knew he had to. “Would you like to speak about what transpired yesterday?” He knew she had heard what Danarius had forced him to admit—if she’d had any doubts about his feelings, those must have been banished. 

“Oh, do I get a say in what we talk about?”

“I’m … sorry?” he asked, mystified by her sarcasm.

She shot a glare over her shoulder at him before looking back to the window. “All this time, and you’ve never been willing to talk about anything … personal. Why should now be any different?” Hawke turned to face him, her eyes fierce and angry. “I woke up that night in sheets still warm from your body to find you on your way out the door, and all my attempts to speak to you about it were met with you threatening to leave if I pursued the subject. So I think it’s a bit late for you to ask me what I’d like to talk about!”

Fenris could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, and he looked away, studying the wall. “I thought … it would be better if you were angry with me. That a clean, simple break would allow us both to move on.”

“You call that ‘clean’ and ‘simple’?”

All the jealousy and pain of the last three years flooded him and he shot back, “You certainly seemed able to move on afterward.”

Her jaw dropped. “Do you know how hard that was for me?” she asked in a near-whisper. “I … None of them ever …” She bit her lip.

“Oh? How is Ser Theodore?” He said it coolly, but he was burning with the need to hear the answer.

Hawke shook her head. “That’s done with.” She winced, as at a painful memory. “He— I wasn’t right for him.” 

“That is not how it appeared at Aveline’s wedding.”

“No. I should never have been there with him in the first place. But I had to try! I had to go forward. I’m not someone who can live in the past, Fenris, not like you.”

“What past? I have no past!”

“You don’t remember it, but you brood about it—“

“I do not brood.”

“Have it your way. You think about it all the time. You’re more mired in the past than anyone I know! You’re worse than Merrill! At least she’s taking steps to bring her people’s past back, misguided and dangerous though they are.” There was a silence between them, as Fenris couldn’t escape the truth of her words. “So, yes, when you shut me out I tried to go on with my life. I didn’t notice you doing the same.”

“I couldn’t.” He got up from the desk, unable to look at her. “That night—I remember your touch as though it were yesterday. You are the only woman—the only person—I ever desired to be … close to.” Gathering his courage, he turned to face her. “I may have been living the life of a man free to choose his path, but I never felt like one. Now—“ He took a deep breath. Once he said this, there would be no more hiding. “There is nothing I want to do with my future other than ask for your forgiveness, for the chance to atone for my mistake.”

Her lips parted, a small sound escaping her. He tried to search her eyes for his answer, but she turned away again, crossing her arms across her chest as though she were cold. “Tell me why, then, Fenris. Help me understand why you closed the door between us so firmly.”

Fenris shook his head, moving toward her, stepping carefully over a broken wine bottle. “I’ve thought about the answer a thousand times. I went over it every time I longed to cross the space between our homes and apologize, all the reasons why it was best for both of us that I didn’t.” 

“And those were?”

“The pain—and the memories it brought up.” Try as he might, he had never been able to recover any of those memories again, not even for a moment. “It was … too much. I was unprepared for the emotions, the …” He flailed for the words for a moment, and then let the truth fall in a rush. “I was a coward. I was afraid of you, afraid for you.”

“You’ve said that before, but you know I can take care of myself.”

“As you did yesterday? You were seconds from being suffocated.” He gasped for breath himself, the scene branded into his mind. “And I nearly … When he ordered me, I responded. As I had always feared I would.”

“You responded, but then you fought it! You fought for yourself.”

“I fought for you.” He shook his head. “But not hard enough.”

“Fenris?” 

“Yes?”

“What would you have done? If Isabela hadn’t been there. Would you have gone with him?”

Fenris remembered that knife’s edge of decision, his body and mind frozen, unable to bow his head to Danarius, but powerless to save her. “I don’t know.” Hawke was still watching him, her face unreadable. “I’m sorry—I have no better answer than that. I truly do not know what I would have done.”

“Neither do I. I don’t even know what I would have wanted you to do. I would have hated to hear you calling him ‘Master’, but … you know I would have come for you.”

“Would you?”

Hawke nodded. “Always.”

Warmth filled him; for the first time, he could see a chance, a possibility he’d never been entirely certain was still available to him. “Can you forgive me? For my foolish cowardice?” 

Her blue eyes met his squarely. “What if I can? How would I know you wouldn’t run away from me again? The next time there was trouble, or concern, would I wake to find you gone?”

Fenris’s first instinct was to let assurances spill from him, to swear on his life, his blood, his very soul that he would never hurt her again, but he owed her too much for easy promises. He nodded to acknowledge the fairness of the question, considering before he spoke. “The first time I met you, you changed my life with a single look. You were the first person I ever met who looked at me like a man—you didn’t see me as a slave, or an inferior, or an … oddity. It was a tremendous and unexpected gift. I repaid you with fear, an acceptance of panic that is entirely beneath the man you believed I could be. And I have suffered for it ever since, wished that I could find the words to tell you … If you can find it within yourself to give me another chance, you can rest assured that is one mistake I will never make again.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “If I could go back to that night … I would never have left. I would have stayed and talked to you, told you how I felt.” He barely recognized his own voice, cracked and husky.

Her eyes were soft and vulnerable on his. “What would you have said?”

These words needed no preparation; these were the words he had practiced over and over for three years. “Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.”

Evelyn swallowed hard, her eyes shining. “Are you sure?”

He moved toward her, stopping just shy of touching her, his whole body trembling. “If you’ll have me, I swear to you, I will remain at your side as long as I live … and beyond, if such a thing is within my power.” 

And then she was in his arms, her soft, sweet mouth on his, and Fenris was staggering backward under the unexpected force, but he didn’t care. His arms were around her, holding her against him as tightly as he could. The backs of his thighs ran into the edge of the desk, and he caught himself with one hand, the other burying itself in her silky hair. They stood there, kissing hungrily, until the pressure of her body against his was too much. This wasn’t quite the way he had pictured it, but he couldn’t wait. Gently, he turned them both around, his arm feeling behind her, sweeping the desk clean with no concern for what might have been on it. He barely heard the crash of the wineglasses falling to the floor.

His eyes met hers as she lay back on the desk, her hands pulling at him until he had climbed onto the desk and was holding himself above her, brushing his pelvis against hers. Hawke’s eyes were hazy and her mouth reddened from their kisses. “Hurry, Fenris, please.” Her fingers moved to the waistband of her pants, shoving them down over her hips with her smallclothes until the cloth tangled around her calves. Fenris’s hands were shaking so badly he could barely manage the fastenings on his own breeches. A whimper of relief escaped him as the constricting fabric was removed and his erection sprang free. He moved his hand between her legs to assure himself that she was ready, and couldn’t restrain the moan that came to his lips when he felt how wet she was.

Evelyn gasped, pumping her hips up against his fingers. “Now, now, now,” she whispered, her hands everywhere in her frenzy. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”

Spurred on by her eagerness, he thrust into her, feeling the heat and pressure of her all around him. Hawke cried out, her legs drawing up to grip his hips as he moved within her. 

His excitement rising, Fenris moved faster, feeling the tension spiral inside him. The blackness at the back of his mind opened again, a kaleidoscope of sound and light beckoning him inward. He fought to keep his eyes open—his past was gone, done with. His future was here, and he wanted to see nothing but her face. 

“Fenris!” Her legs tightened around him, her hands clutching at him, and he felt the sudden increase of warmth and moisture as her face flushed. He cried out her name, keeping his eyes on hers as the spasms shook him.

Panting, he leaned his head against her shoulder. He still half-expected to wake up, as he had done so often before.

After a few moments, he felt her hands, soft and gentle, on the side of his face, and he shivered. How he had longed to feel her touch again. Lifting his head, he met her blue eyes, shining wet with tears. “I have missed you so much,” she whispered.

Possibly it was a strange sentiment; they’d seen each other nearly every day. But he understood. “And I you, _me anim_ ,” he said.

“I will never let anything part us again,” Evelyn whispered. She pulled his head back down to hers, kissing him slowly, thoroughly, as if to satisfy herself he was really there. Where before they had rushed, now they took their time, hands and mouths exploring and remembering, the hours slipping away as they sealed their promises in every way they could think of.


	33. The Hanged Man

Hawke woke suddenly, her heart pounding. The room was unfamiliar, shapes seen dimly in late afternoon light filtered through torn scraps of curtains. A smile spread across her face as she remembered this morning, recognizing the weight across her hip as Fenris’s arm. She relaxed against the warmth of his body, trying to figure out what had awakened her. 

Slowly, Fenris’s arm moved up over her ribs, pulling her more firmly against him. The thin mattress he slept on was thrown on the floor in the back corner of an upstairs bedroom—that of an elven servant once, Hawke was certain. Several flights of stairs and a number of complex traps he’d set separated the squalid little room from the main portion of the mansion. It was as clear a demonstration of the kind of fear he’d been living in as Evelyn could have asked for.

Then the sound came again, a faint small squeaking.

“Fenris.”

“Mmm.” He nuzzled the back of her neck, his hand splayed, warm and strong, across her stomach.

“There’s a mouse.”

“Mmhm.” His lips were moving on her neck, and she considered forgetting the mouse. Her body, though still sore from their activities earlier that day, was already reacting to his nearness and his touch and the knowledge that this wasn’t yet another dream. 

The mouse squeaked again. She could see it now, glittering little black eyes shining in the dimness, coming closer.

“Fenris!” She reached back, clutching his thigh.

“Ow.” He propped himself up on his elbow, looking over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“There’s a mouse!”

His elven eyes saw more clearly than hers, and he peered in the mouse’s direction. “Ah. Yes. That’s Remeurri.”

“That’s who?”

“Remeurri. Named after a particularly fine Antivan wine.”

“You named the mouse.”

“I did. There is also Agreggio, Chivaret, Paleo, and Atressi.”

“You have pet mice?” The mouse came toward them again, and Hawke couldn’t restrain the shriek that came to her lips. She leaped to her feet, dragging the threadbare sheet with her and searching for the nearest piece of furniture to climb on. 

Fenris sat in the middle of the mattress, his hair tousled, blinking at her. “Is there a problem?”

“Mice, Fenris. I don’t like them.”

“So I see.” He made a little chittering sound, holding his hand out for the mouse, which climbed aboard. “I don’t suppose you’d like to pet him?”

“Pet him? Are you crazy?” She searched the floor, snatching up her pants and smallclothes from the corner where they’d landed earlier and shaking them frantically to dislodge any unwanted guests.

Fenris put the mouse on the windowsill, and it promptly ran into a hole in the frame and disappeared. “I can attempt to retrain them.”

Hawke fastened her pants, snagging her breastband from the back of a chair with a broken seat. She hooked it together before crossing the room to him, putting her arms around his waist. “You don’t have to live like this anymore, you know. You can come live with me.” She felt his muscles stiffen in reaction to her words and added, “Eventually.” Of course he was too damned independent and stubborn to agree to such a thing. She tried to look at it from his perspective, but it was too soon to avoid the sting of fear—was he being aloof because he wasn’t ready for the next step, or because he wasn’t sure he could really commit to her?

“It isn’t you,” he said, one arm wrapping around her. “But … I achieved my freedom only yesterday.”

“And you need time,” she finished for him. She kissed him, meaning it to be a quick kiss for reassurance, but his mouth opened beneath hers, and they were both breathing hard when she finally drew back. Pulling away before the fire between them could ignite, she searched the floor for her socks. A ball of fluff moved as she picked up a sock, and she shrieked again before realizing it was just dust. A lot of dust. “Fenris, I don’t think I can sleep here, much as I love you.” She froze on one leg in the act of pulling on the sock as she realized what she’d said. The memory of Fenris’s forced confession before Danarius rang in her ears, and for a moment she wished she could unsay the words. But they were going to come out eventually. Casual usage might just be the thing to take away that memory and reclaim those words for them. She resumed dressing as if she hadn’t said anything significant, picking up a boot. “I have to go check in with Bodhan, and I’m starving. Come eat with me?”

“I … believe I may look into the bedrooms on the lower floors. Perhaps one of them is more suitable than this one,” he said. He held out her shirt.

“Do that. I’ll see you at the Hanged Man later?” She wondered if she sounded clingy, but something in her was afraid that if she left right now, this whole interlude would end, and she didn’t think she could bear to lose him again.

“You shall.” Something confident shone steadily in his green eyes, calming her fears somewhat, and Evelyn put her arms around him, feeling the strength in his embrace. Their fingers clung together as she turned to leave.

As she let herself into her house, for the first time in years she didn’t immediately think how quiet it was. Instead she was imagining coming home with Fenris, and she was smiling as she walked into the entry hall. 

Bodahn immediately bustled toward her, wearing his habitual expression of harassment. “Messere! We’ve been wondering where you were.”

“Anything I need to worry about?”

“There’s a message from the Knight Commander, and a lady is waiting to see you.”

Hawke took the message he held out, slitting it open with the ragged edge of a fingernail as she walked toward her study. She paused, her eyes moving rapidly over Meredith’s bold capitals. Three apostates on the loose in Kirkwall, and Meredith wanted Hawke to track them down. She sighed. Fenris would love this one; Merrill and Anders would hate it. Varric would roll his eyes at yet more mage-templar strife. 

A dark-haired woman with a worried face rose as Hawke came into the office. “Oh, Champion, thank the Maker you’re here!”

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, messere.”

“I need to ask you … I need to hire you to help my brother.”

“Sit down, please. Who is your brother?” Hawke took her seat behind the desk, leaning forward toward the woman.

“I should start over. I’m sorry, I’m so flustered and I was worried … I’m Delilah Prentice. My brother is Nathaniel Howe. He’s a Grey Warden, stationed in Amaranthine.”

“I’m not sure I can intrude on Grey Warden business,” Hawke said.

“This isn’t necessarily Grey Warden business. You see, my brother and a small group of his companions followed your route into the Deep Roads, searching for that thaig you found. That’s why I need your help specifically. They haven’t been heard from, and it’s been too long. They should have been back by now!” Delilah took a handkerchief from her reticule, holding it up to her eyes. “The Wardens say not to worry about it, that they’re sure he’ll be back soon, but I don’t think they’re concerned enough.”

“And you want me to go into the Deep Roads and find them?” Hawke could just imagine the reactions she’d get when she informed her team of this mission. “Why not let the Wardens take care of their own? It’s what they seem to prefer to do.”

“You don’t understand! This is my brother. Outside my husband and son, he’s the only family I have left. Please, Serah Hawke!”

“All right. I’ll do it.” She retrieved a sheet of parchment from a drawer, inking a quill. “Start from the beginning, please.”

An hour later, armed with all the limited information Delilah had and freshly bathed, Hawke left for the Hanged Man. Her stomach felt fluttery and unsettled, partly from excitement and partly from trepidation; after all this time, it was hard to believe Fenris might be there waiting for her, unreservedly hers.

As soon as she entered, she searched for him, their gazes meeting across the crowded room. His eyes lit up, and something inside her that had been afraid relaxed. She crossed the room, preparing to throw herself into his arms, but he stepped aside, looking at her apologetically. 

She sighed. Of course it wasn’t going to be quite that easy. Turning toward their table, she caught Varric’s eyes.

“So, Hawke, haven’t seen much of you since this morning,” the dwarf said, smirking.

“I’ve been busy, Varric,” she said, her mouth turning up in an irrepressible smile. She glanced in Fenris’s direction, and saw the same smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. As the others took their seat, glances of arch understanding flew amongst them.

“So,” Isabela drawled, leaning her elbows on the table so that her cleavage deepened, “how far do those tattoos go? Does his—“ Whatever else she might have said was smothered as Sebastian clapped his hand firmly over her mouth. The tips of Fenris’s ears were bright red, and Isabela’s eyes twinkled. When Sebastian moved his hand, she moved to drape herself over the Prince’s arm. “Ooh, Sebastian, why didn’t you tell me that was your kind of thing? I have the nicest set of leather straps upstairs…” She whispered the rest of it into his ear, and Sebastian shook his head with an indulgent smile.

“Once that would have been quite the invitation, Isabela, but those experiences hold little charm for me now.”

“Spoilsport.” She crossed her arms over her chest and sank back in the chair.

“If we’re all paying attention,” Hawke said, frowning good-naturedly at Isabela, “I have two pieces of new business to discuss. Firstly, a woman named Delilah Prentice came to my mansion—“ She broke off as Anders stiffened. “What?”

“I used to know her,” he muttered.

“Nathaniel Howe’s sister?”

Anders nodded.

“Of course, I should have put two and two together. The way she was talking, I thought he was newly a Warden since your time with them, not an experienced member of the Order. It seems he’s gone missing, following our trail through the Deep Roads.”

“Oh, no,” groaned Varric. “I can see what’s coming.”

Hawke nodded, her eyes on Anders, whose face had paled. “She wants us to go find him.”

“Let the Wardens find him,” Anders said. “What business is it of ours?”

“It’s our business because we’re helping a woman search for her family.”

There was silence around the table, none of them willing to challenge Hawke on this particular topic.

“All right, then. I figure we’ll go in the same group as before—“

“No.” Anders stood up, his chair scraping across the floor. “I’m not going.”

“Anders, we need you. I know they need you in Darktown, too, but you have the most experience with darkspawn and Grey Wardens.”

“I—I can’t.”

“Coward,” Fenris muttered, ostensibly under his breath, but everyone heard him, and no one spoke up in Anders’s defense.

Hawke’s eyes stayed steadily on the mage’s face, and at last Anders sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Very well. If you will have it no other way.”

“Thank you, Anders.” He didn’t look up, and she cleared her throat. “Next business: Knight-Commander Meredith has asked us to help her track down some missing mages.”

Now the mage’s head snapped up, his eyes burning. “I know what that means. She thinks they’re blood mages and deserve to be killed!”

“Maybe so,” Hawke said quietly, “but we’re going to investigate before we do anything drastic.” She unfolded Meredith’s message. “The mages we’re looking for are named Huon, Evelina, and Emile.”

“Huon?” Merrill said. “His wife Nyssa runs a shop in the Alienage. She’s very bitter against the Knight-Commander—you might want to let me speak to her. I don’t know if she would talk to you.”

“Thanks, Merrill.” The elf had gained a lot of level-headedness since the Qunari attack, or was just showing it more, but Hawke still had her suspicions that Merrill was working with a demon to fix her eluvian. She hadn’t pressed the issue yet out of concern for Varric, but the time was going to come, she was sure of it.

“I know Evelina,” Anders said. “I grew up with her at the Tower in Ferelden, and I’ve been helping her in Darktown. She’s taking care of a group of refugee children. Or she was, until they locked her in the Gallows for asking for help.”

Hawke remembered Evelina now—she’d seen the woman several times in Darktown, asking for money for her children, a careworn, defeated-looking woman. Hawke had emptied all the coin out of her pockets each time, always wishing it were more. 

“She’s no more a danger than I am,” Anders declared. 

Fenris snorted at that. “Does anyone else hear fate being tempted in that comment?”

Anders glared at the elf. “Says the ruthless trained killer.”

Hawke wondered how she had missed the escalation of hostilities between the two men. There was untempered steel in the dark looks they were giving each other. 

“Anyone know this last one, Emile?”

“I wonder if that could be Emile de Launcet,” Sebastian said. “He was taken to the Gallows as a young child. His parents are nobles, originally from Orlais.”

“You think he’d have gone home to Mother?” Aveline asked.

“Mother perhaps. Father, definitely not. The Duke de Launcet would not jeopardize his position helping a mage, his son or no.” 

“So where does a young mage recently escaped from the Tower go?” 

Glances were exchanged around the table, and everyone turned in their seat to scan the crowd.

“Hawke, if I were looking for a mage just out of the Gallows, my eye would fall right there,” Isabela said. “Look at those clothes.”

“Do they make them cut their hair that way?” Merrill asked, looking at the young man in question, who was almost entirely bald except for a circle of hair like a collar around the sides of his head. He sat alone, his arm curled around a bottle of the Hanged Man’s cheapest ale, his head on the table.

“That’s cruel and unusual punishment,” Varric said, shaking his head.

“No time like the present.” Hawke crossed the room, standing next to the table. “Emile de Launcet, I assume.”

He looked hazily up at her. “Are you a mage? Because you’ve certainly magicked my breath away.”

Hawke heard a faint growl behind her, and Fenris moved around her, grasping the mage by the collar and pulling him to a standing position. “Watch your tongue.”

“Eh? What do you want with me?”

“How does someone who’s spent his whole life in the Tower still hold onto that wretched accent?” Varric asked.

Hawke shook her head. “I don’t know. The Knight-Commander sent us,” she said to Emile, who turned pale.

“I haven’t done anything, I swear it! I’m not a blood mage—I just said that in order to look suave. For the ladies. I have never … been with a woman.“ 

“Poor thing,” Isabela said.

“Volunteering, whore?” Aveline asked.

“Not me,” Isabela said. “I have standards.”

“Since when?”

“Shut up, big girl.”

“Come on, Fenris,” Hawke said, “might as well take him back.”

“No, wait!” Emile said. “If I could … one of the waitresses, Nella, has agreed to lie with me. I even paid for a room. Please! If you take me back, they may kill me or make me Tranquil, and I do not want to die without knowing the touch of a woman.”

Hawke groaned.

“What’s the harm, Hawke?” Isabela asked. “Let the boy have his fun.”

“All right, but I’m holding you responsible for him. If he disappears, I’m telling the Knight-Commander you let him get away.”

“Right.” Isabela nodded. Fenris let go of Emile’s collar, and Isabela swatted the young mage on the rear. “Go get her, while you have the chance.”

“Of course. Thank you! Thank you!” Beaming, he made his way through the crowd, with Isabela and Varric, who loved a good story, trailing behind him.

“Enough excitement for me tonight, Hawke,” Aveline said. “Double-date?” she whispered, leaning in closer.

Hawke grinned. “Give it some time.”

“Right. Have fun.”

Evelyn looked at Fenris. The display of jealousy had been surprising, but a little bit exciting, as well. She wondered if he had wanted to do that every time he’d seen her with another man. It was a surprising amount of restraint, really. She didn’t know if she’d have done as well watching him with another woman.

She was about to step closer and say as much when Corff, the bartender, called her over. “Champion.”

“Corff.”

“I need your help. Don’t know who else to ask.”

“Anytime. We owe you.”

He nodded to acknowledge the truth of the statement. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve been losing people. For a few years now—regulars, transients, occasional customers, all of ‘em seem to just disappear. I’ve cleaned out rooms of left-behind belongings a dozen times or more over the years, and that’s not usual.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“What else? Do your Champion stuff. Find out what’s happening and stop it.”

“Of course.” Nicely nonspecific. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Corff nodded, satisfied, and moved to tend to a customer.

Hawke turned to Fenris. “Well, I think it’s time to get out of here. What do you think?”

His eyes darkened. “Absolutely.”

They hadn’t gone ten steps from the Hanged Man before Fenris’s hand clamped down on her wrist, dragging her into the shadows of an alley. Before Evelyn could get her bearings, he had pushed her up against the wall of the nearest building, his mouth finding hers hungrily in the dark. Her arms stole around him, pulling him even closer. The kisses were intoxicating, sending Evelyn’s senses spinning and answering all the questions that had built up in her over the course of the night. 

His mouth left hers, kissing and nipping along the edge of her jaw and moving down the side of her neck. Her legs felt liquid, and she leaned back against the wall, a soft sigh escaping her.

“If you weren’t wearing this armor,” he whispered in her ear, his breathing harsh and hot on her skin, “I’d have you right here.”

She couldn’t possibly still be wearing armor, Hawke thought hazily. It must have melted right off her by now from the heat he kindled inside her. His tongue traced the edge of her ear, his teeth tugging at her earlobe. “You couldn’t hold my hand inside the Hanged Man, but you’d be okay with having sex here in an alley?” she whispered.

“Perhaps someday I will be able to touch you without wanting you, but we are far from reaching that point,” he said, pressing his hips against hers.

Evelyn cursed the habits that had brought her out in armor tonight. Never again, she thought. She’d just have to learn to protect herself without armor, if it meant such delightful interludes would be possible. “Come home with me,” she said.

There was a pause as he rested his forehead against hers. “Yes.”

A smile spread irrepressibly across her face. Taking his hand, she led him toward Hightown.

She worried, crossing through her house and climbing the stairs, if the memory of what had happened before would cause a problem. But as soon as her door had closed behind them, Fenris spun her toward him, his arms pulling her close and his mouth finding hers. She was sure she would never get enough of him—the heat and the long hard body against her, the taste and scent of him, the hungry moan as their mouths came together.

Between the two of them, they got her breastplate off, deaf to the sounds it made clattering to the floor. Evelyn’s hands moved to the clasps holding the upper part of his armor on, deftly unfastening them until the armor broke open, his muscular chest, the lines of lyrium shining in the moonlight, open to her hands. He gasped as her hands slid down his chest and around to his back, her mouth moving from his down over his neck and collarbone to bite at his nipples and run her tongue down the center of his chest.

Fenris’s hands tangled in her hair, removing the pins that held it up, holding her head against him. Her tongue dipped into his navel and then continued down to the top of his leggings. 

“Evelyn,” he gasped, reaching to brace himself against the edge of the mantel as she pulled the leggings down, taking him into her mouth. Her hands finished stripping the clothes off his legs as she licked and sucked.

With a growl, Fenris took her by the shoulders, pulling her off of him and moving her toward the bed. 

She tugged her undershirt off over her head, unfastening her breastband and dropping it to the floor as Fenris shrugged off the top of his armor.

His strong hands moved to her breasts, cupping and squeezing them. He bent, trailing his tongue across her nipples, grazing them lightly with his teeth. Evelyn’s head fell back, her breath coming short. Fenris lowered her to the bed as his mouth continued to move over her breasts, biting and nipping. His hands moved to finish undressing her.

Gently he pushed her legs apart, his breath hot on her center, and she moaned and pushed her hips toward him. The first touch of his tongue was light and teasing, barely felt before it was gone, and she reached for him, her hands finding his silky white hair. He chuckled against her, the vibration a caress, before his mouth descended on her core in earnest, touching and tasting in all her most sensitive places. Evelyn could do nothing but hold onto him, riding the waves of sensation he created in her body.

“Fenris!” She tugged at his hair. “Please.”

He moved to lie next to her, the length of his body hard and trembling, the lyrium glowing in the darkness. She ran a hand down his arm, her fingers lightly grazing the markings there, and Fenris hissed.

“Does that hurt?”

“Not … precisely.” He took her hand and brought it to his chest again. Evelyn drew the tips of her fingers along the line of his markings, reveling in the sounds he made and the trust implicit in his allowing her to do so.  
Tracing the tattoos that ran across his abdomen and down over the inside of his thighs, she circled his length with her fingers, tugging gently.

Fenris took the hint, covering her body with his and allowing her to guide him inside her. He held himself still for long moments, watching her face as Evelyn whimpered and writhed beneath him, eager for the friction of their bodies moving together. Then he pulled back, thrusting forward again slowly, each movement a prolonged caress. Urgency built inside Evelyn. Her hands moved over his back, her legs wrapping around him, her hips gyrating in a desperate attempt to speed his pace. 

She leaned up, running her tongue along the markings on his neck and over his chin, the lyrium making her tongue tingle. Above her, Fenris growled, dipping his head to nip at her neck as his movements sped up. They were thrusting together now, and Evelyn could feel the tightening inside, the sweet tension.

“Yes, Fenris, yes!” she cried out, her body shaking with the intensity of her release. Fenris groaned, pushing deep inside her as he shuddered.

With slow, languid movements they came apart, shifting beneath the covers and curling up together. “Stay,” she murmured. “Please.”

Her fear of waking up without him again went unspoken, but she could tell Fenris understood. His arm tightened around her and he kissed her temple. “I am not going anywhere.”

Assured at last, she tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder, drifting off to sleep with a contentment she’d never felt before.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The Deep Roads were as oppressive as always. Anders trudged along unspeaking, refusing to crack a smile even for Varric, and even the presence of Fenris at her side and in her bedroll couldn’t keep Hawke from feeling that the walls were about to close in on her.

They relied on Varric’s maps and Anders’s darkspawn senses to navigate the corridors, all of which looked the same to Hawke. She lost track of time as they made their way deeper into the earth.

“What’s your stone sense tell you?” she asked Varric. “How long has it been?”

“Stone sense? I was born in Kirkwall,” he said. “All the stone is telling me is to get out of this blighted place.”

“Some help you are.”

Anders held up a hand. “Hold up.”

“What is it?”

“Darkspawn.” He looked steadily into the darkness.

“Battle ahead,” Fenris said. 

Anders nodded. “There’s a Grey Warden up there. Let’s hope for Delilah’s sake that it’s the right one.” His tone didn’t echo the enthusiasm of his words.

Hawke followed Fenris, who could hear the sounds of battle more clearly than the rest of them, drawing her sword. As they came into a cavernous room lit by flickering torches, they found a dark-haired man, thin and pale, holding off a group of darkspawn with nothing but a bow. He was firing arrows rapidly, but the darkspawn were closing in.

Shouting, Fenris rushed forward, the first sweep of his blade taking out two of the shorter creatures. Hawke, Anders, and Varric joined the fray as well. It seemed that the waves of darkspawn kept coming for hours, but the torches were still burning when the last one fell. Having been briefed by Anders on the dangers of darkspawn blood, Hawke, Fenris, and Varric cleaned up immediately. Wiping her hands on a rag, Hawke held it up to a torch and tossed it into a corner to burn before turning to the dark-haired archer.

He was staring in Anders’s direction, squinting in the dim light.

“Nathaniel Howe?” Hawke asked.

Turning to look at her, the archer nodded. “The same. And you are?”

“Evelyn Hawke.”

“The Champion of Kirkwall?”

She grimaced. “Please, just Hawke will do.”

“What are you doing down here? I thought you and your companions had stripped the thaig of valuables.” His hoarse voice sounded disapproving.

“We escaped with a few things other than our lives, that’s true,” she agreed, regretting the impulse that had led her to help this man. “In this case, we’re here at your sister’s request.”

“Delilah’s in Kirkwall?”

“You’ve been gone longer than she had expected.”

He shook his head. “Someday I’d like her to start seeing me as a grown man, instead of as her baby brother. You can tell her for me that I’m fine, that I’m doing the task assigned to me.”

“Which is?”

“Grey Warden business.” He must have realized how abrupt he sounded. “I’m sorry, Hawke, but I’m not allowed to say more than that.” He scratched absently at his arm. “The rest of my companions didn’t make it this far,” he said, “but I could swear I still feel a Grey Warden nearby.”

Anders moved forward, the torchlight shining on his face. “Hello, Nathaniel.”

Black rage distorted Howe’s features. “You!” He launched himself at Anders, both men going down. Anders raised his arms to protect his face. Howe’s fists were flying. Varric’s face was avid with curiosity, and Fenris was openly smirking. Hawke rolled her eyes—men!—before grabbing Howe by the collar and pulling him off Anders.

“What is going on here?”

“That … that traitor! That sneaking runaway! That—“

“Abomination?” Fenris supplied.

“Not helping,” Hawke said. 

“He left the Wardens!”

“I was run out of the Wardens,” Anders said.

“Run out? The Commander begged you to stay.”

“Do you think I could have stayed there and watched her pining away for her precious King?”

Hawke raised an eyebrow. “I thought you told me you left because the Commander took away your cat.”

“She’s the one who gave him the cat,” Howe said. He looked at Anders. “She misses you; she wishes you would come back. You know they’re getting married now?”

“I’ve heard.”

“That’s her message. It’s not mine. We needed you then, and you walked away from your post. We don’t need you now. Maker only knows what’s become of you after making that stupid deal with Justice. I wish the Commander had sent him back to the Fade when she had the chance.”

This was more than Hawke had ever known about Anders’s past, and she found herself wishing that this mysterious Commander had done just that. 

“Well, she didn’t,” Anders said. “And it’s too late now. Much too late.”

Howe shook his head again, turning his back on Anders. “You can’t trust him. No one’s ever been able to trust him.”

“We know,” Fenris cut in, looking significantly at Hawke.

“Hush, Fenris. Would the Wardens take him back?” she asked Howe, ignoring Anders’s squawk of protest.

“The Commander might, but she’d be overruled, I think. In the end someone’d run him through like the abomination he is.” Howe glared at Anders over her shoulder. “What will you do, Champion?”

She looked at the angry Grey Warden in front of her, and then at her friend, the troubled and unhappy mage. “We’ll take him back to Kirkwall. The people of Darktown still need him. What will you do?”

“I still have a task to accomplish, but I think we’ve cleared out enough darkspawn that I can return safely. Thank Delilah for her concern.” His gaze shifted to Anders again, and this time Hawke thought she saw concern and hurt behind the anger. “Take care of him. I wouldn’t want him to hurt someone. Or himself.”

“Nor would I.”

The Grey Warden turned without another word, disappearing into the darkness.

“Well, that was a sodding waste of time,” Varric grumbled.

Hawke was examining a pile of bones in the corner. There was a particularly well-made pair of boots lying amidst the other debris, and she lifted them up with a grin. “At least we’re not going back empty-handed. These are nice.”

“Why do you always get the new armor?” Varric asked. “You’re the Champion of Kirkwall; can’t you buy armor for yourself?”

“It feels more triumphant to scrounge it, what can I say.” Hawke led the way out of the chamber, feeling the weight of Fenris’s disapproving gaze on her. 

Anders fell into step beside her. “Thank you. For standing up for me.” He laughed bitterly. “For a minute there, I thought you were going to kill me, like you did those escaped mages.”

“Huon was a blood mage who murdered his wife, and Evelina became a full-on abomination. They gave me no choice,” Hawke said. “You, on the other hand, are still fighting for what’s right, and I will defend you as long as that continues to be true.” She turned, looking him square in the eyes. “Don’t make me regret it, Anders.”

His eyes met hers for a moment, and then fell away. “I hope I won’t have to.” He walked on ahead, leaving her staring after him, a coldness forming inside her. She had the terrible feeling that any chance she’d had to save her friend had passed long ago.


	34. I Am Yours

If Fenris had ever been the fidgeting type, the habit had been knocked out of him by Danarius long ago. But leaning against the wall in Darktown, he felt an intense desire to uncross and recross his arms, tap his foot impatiently, and sigh in exasperation. The fact that this waiting was his own fault, because he had flatly refused to accompany Hawke inside that abomination’s clinic, did nothing to slow the steady rise of his temper. What was Hawke thinking, trusting that … thing? 

The door opened on its squeaking hinges, and Hawke came out, looking sad and contemplative. Her face lightened when she saw Fenris, and his heart did a backflip at the sight. Until recently, he hadn’t known his heart was capable of complex acrobatics, but the last month had been filled with moments that made his heart leap and dance. He caught himself just on the brink of grinning foolishly at her, and cleared his throat as he walked down the rickety wooden steps next to her.

“What did he say?”

“He said it’s all true, what Nathaniel said, that he agreed to the merger with Justice only after he’d left the Grey Wardens. Apparently he had—has—feelings for the Hero of Ferelden. And he lost the cat somewhere along the way. He didn’t say, but I suspect Justice had a hand in that. He’s never liked Anders having other interests.”

“Did the demon make its appearance while you were there?” 

“No. I haven’t seen Justice in a long time. I think Anders is too tired and too defeated to be much use to Justice. The spirit fed off of his outrage, and Anders doesn’t seem to have the energy to be outraged. I haven’t seen him work on the manifesto in months.” Hawke glanced back over her shoulder at the flickering lantern outside the clinic. “Anders said it was almost too late for him to do any good, that he wasn’t sure he had it in him to fight anymore.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Too late for what?” 

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m worried about him.”

“Bah!” Fenris said. “He would say anything he thought might tug at your heartstrings.”

“Do you really think I’m such a poor judge of people as that?” Hawke snapped. “I would know if he was putting me on with a sob story.”

Fenris wasn’t certain that she would, but he let it go. This was what he was here for, after all, to keep a sharp eye on the people Hawke’s tender heart wouldn’t allow her to see as dangerous. 

They came up the lift from Darktown, the rusty chains squealing, and emerged into the sunlight and heat that pervaded Hightown at this hour of a summer day. Hawke turned her face up to the sun with a sigh of contentment.

As they strolled through a courtyard, they passed two men, both youngest sons of minor nobles, lounging at a table outside an overpriced café that was surprisingly popular despite its overbrewed coffee.

“Say, isn’t that the Champion of Kirkwall?” drawled one of the young men. 

“Yes,” said the other, in an Orlesian accent that was entirely too affected to be real, “and her knife-ear lover, too. But what can you expect from a dog lord?”

“At least she didn’t take up with a mabari,” said the first.

“Is there a difference?” the second asked, and both men tittered.

Hawke’s eyes flashed and her fists clenched, but Fenris shook his head at her. He kept walking, and after a moment, she did, too.

“That troubles you,” he said quietly. “The use of the racial pejorative.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

He chuckled. “Of all the negative appellations that could be used to describe me, those denigrating my race are almost a relief. I have never particularly thought of myself as an elf. It was always of far less importance than ‘slave’.”

Hawke nodded, understanding. “Would it disturb you if I said sometimes I forget that you’re an elf?”

“Why would it? Sometimes I do, as well.” Their steps were taking them in the direction of Hightown Estates, toward one of their homes. Fenris stopped in the street. “Could we … There is somewhere I would like to go. Will you accompany me?”

“Anywhere,” she said, and his breath caught at the expression on her face. Perhaps someday he would stop finding her obvious affection for him miraculous … but he hoped not. Had they not been standing in the middle of a busy street, he would have pulled her to him and kissed her breathless. Part of him wished he could be that kind of man, the kind who could openly display his feelings toward her for all to see, but the lesson that allowing others to see one’s feelings was to give them great power was too deeply ingrained in him. He simply could not risk such a display and what it would reveal. 

“Very well,” he said instead. The smile on Hawke’s face told him she saw the happiness she had created inside him, even if he couldn’t display it openly.

They turned toward Lowtown, walking together and feeling no particular need to speak.

He found that he was actually nervous as he opened the door. These past few weeks, he had neglected Mistress Blodgett shamefully. Being with Evelyn had absorbed so much of his time and attention that there had been little left over for others, and he was ashamed to have let it go so long.

She was standing over the dough as always, her ridiculous curls bobbing as she worked the rolling pin. Fenris was half-afraid she’d be angry, but her face lit up when she saw him. “Duckie! Been a while since you came ‘round. Was wonderin’ what might have happened to ya.” She looked avidly at Hawke, who appeared faintly self-conscious.

“I had to make an expedition into the Deep Roads,” he offered, aware that it was a lame excuse and only half an answer. “You have been well?”

“Never better,” she said cheerfully, flipping the rolling pin and starting to stretch the dough out in another direction. “Business is boomin’.” Looking from Fenris to Hawke, she said, “Beggin’ yer pardon, Champion, but are you treatin’ this boy right?”

“Now that he allows me to,” Hawke said.

Mistress Blodgett nodded. “Good, then. ‘Bout time. He’s pined for you somethin’ awful.”

Fenris made a strangled noise of embarrassment, and the women smiled at each other.

“May I try one?” Hawke asked, stepping forward. 

An expression of blank panic passed across Mistress Blodgett’s face so quickly Fenris thought he might have imagined it. “Not a good idea,” she said quickly. “They’re … not fresh. No, not fresh at all. Come back tomorrow, I’ll have some special for ya.”

The connecting door to the rooms in the back opened and Drury stepped through, his hair wilder and whiter than Fenris remembered. He looked startled to see them, but recovered quickly. “Ah, lad, good to see you back.”

Fenris nodded. The marital relationship Mistress Blodgett had hinted at between herself and her lodger had never materialized, although it seemed obvious enough that they shared living quarters and no doubt a bed. Fenris didn’t want to speculate any further in that direction. “And you, Serah? You have been well?”

Drury shrugged. “The barbershop pays the bills, and what more can a man ask for?” A darkness flashed in his eyes, indicative of hungers he wouldn’t admit to, giving the lie to his easy words.

There was a moment’s awkward silence as the four of them looked at each other, no one appearing certain of what to say. Then the door was flung open, slamming into the wall, and a man hurried in, his wild eyes seeking Drury.

“Serah!” Young Trevor the Templar crossed the room in a few long strides, seeming oblivious to the presence of the others in the room. “You must help me! A terrible thing is afoot.”

“Calm yourself, lad,” Drury said, trying to draw Trevor away from the others.

The Templar refused to move. “Serah Terrien is back from Orlais. I tried to see Susannah, but she is locked away in an upper room. She managed to throw me a message.” He shook a scrap of paper in Drury’s face. “He plans to Tranquilize her! In the face of her unwillingness to marry him, he intends to make her Tranquil. She’s not even a mage! Do you know what that can do to a person?”

Drury shot a glance in Fenris’s direction. They had spoken little since the night Drury revealed what had been done to him, but Fenris had never forgotten the dread sunburst that lay beneath the thick white hair that covered Drury’s brow. “I know,” Drury said simply. “What do you think I can do?”

“Help her!”

“How? Am I to break into Serah Terrien’s home? Go to him and ask for her release? Tell him that a Templar desires his ward and that he should give her up on the strength of that?” Disdain dripped from Drury’s tone. “I have no power to make Serah Terrien do anything.”

Trevor took a step back, his face blank and uncomprehending. It was clear that he hadn’t thought about what kind of help there was to be had.

“Perhaps I can do something,” Hawke said, stepping toward the two men. Both of them started visibly before looking at her—it was clear that they had forgotten she was there. “I know Serah Terrien, as well as Knight Commander Meredith. And if speaking to the two of them should fail, I know a great many other people who would be glad to use their skills to such a purpose.”

Fenris was surprised to see that the look of relief that passed across Drury’s face was as profound as the one Trevor wore. 

“Serah Hawke, would you truly be willing to help?” Trevor asked, moving toward her eagerly.

“Of course. Let me consult with my people, and we will move as quickly as we can. Did Susannah give you any indication of how soon this Tranquilization was to take place?”

Trevor smoothed the paper out, peering at it closely. “No. I can keep an ear out in the Gallows; if such a ritual is to be carried out, some one of my fellow Templars will know about it.”

“Do that. Contact me as soon as you know anything.”

“Thank you, Serah!” Trevor glanced outside. “I’m sorry, I must hurry back before the Knight-Lieutenant notices I’m gone.” He rushed out of the shop as quickly as he had come in.

“That’s a nice thing to do,” Mistress Blodgett said. “Of course, if she does get away, they’ll have to get right out of Kirkwall, won’t they?” She sounded strangely eager.

“Yes,” Drury said shortly. “They will.”

Fenris could hear the darkness in the other man’s tone—it spoke to the darkness within himself, which was slowly dissipating in the bright light of Hawke’s affection. Drury appeared to be descending further into that darkness, embracing it, and Fenris feared the potential consequences of such a course.

Hawke cleared her throat. “I believe we’ll be going now, right, Fenris?”

“Indeed.” He bowed gravely to Drury and Mistress Blodgett.

“Come again soon, duckie. We’ve missed you!”

The streets of Lowtown were bustling with working folk doing their shopping and purchasing their evening meals. The streets of Hightown, on the other hand, were nearly clear, all the nobility safely ensconced in their mansions and having their meals served to them.

Fenris paused at the foot of the stairs into Hightown Estates. The nights they spent together had all been in Hawke’s estate, and fair enough, as his had few of the amenities hers boasted, but it was time to make a change, lest he lose sight of his own residence entirely. “I … would be pleased if you would accompany me to my mansion this evening.”

He saw the hesitation in her, and felt a sting of disappointment. “Sure,” she said at last, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. Fenris bit his tongue to avoid snapping at her—she couldn’t know what he had planned. He hoped Varric had held up his end of the bargain.

Leading Hawke up the steps, he opened the door for her, allowing her to precede him inside the mansion. Delectable smells filled the entry, and Fenris gave a sigh of relief.

“Fenris!” She sniffed the air delightedly. “Chicken Nevarra! And … fresh bread … and chocolate souffle! The specials at Casa Lunetta!”

“The same.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“My favorite!”

“I know.” He led her into the dining room. Every surface sparkled, and the meal was laid out on brand new china, since everything that had been in the mansion originally was in pieces.

“Did you do all this yourself?” 

It was tempting to lie, but … “No. Bodahn helped with the cleaning and Varric with the meal selection and procurement.”

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble just to get me to come over here.”

“Yes, I did.” Try as he might, he couldn’t keep a hint of bitterness out of his voice.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it bothered you so much.”

He shrugged. “Nor did I.” Walking to the table, he held out a chair for her. Once she was seated, he picked up a bottle of wine—Atressi Blanca, a particularly rich and flavorful Antivan white—and poured them each a glass. 

“Fenris, I can’t believe you did all this,” she said, her eyes shining.

“I am given to understand that such things are customary on an anniversary,” he said stiffly, still not entirely comfortable referring to them as an official couple.

Evelyn looked at him in surprise. Her fingers moved as if she was counting, and then a smile lit her face. “It’s a month, isn’t it? I hadn’t even noticed.” They were silent, simply enjoying the moment, and then Fenris broke it by reaching for her plate. He felt unaccountably nervous. They had shared a number of meals together over the years, but this was the first concerted attempt he’d made to be romantic, as Merrill had put it. He had gone to Varric for advice on what to do for Hawke, since neither Aveline nor Isabela seemed likely to have the kind of ideas he was looking for, and Merrill had been there, delighted to add her thoughts. Merrill and Varric had both stressed how important it was not to make a mistake, and now Fenris felt the full weight of that responsibility.

Somehow he managed to get through serving the meal, and Hawke made a joke, and the rest of the dinner was much lighter as Fenris realized she wasn’t expecting him to be sincere and emotional every moment. 

They cut into the chocolate souffle, which was both rich and light. Evelyn moaned with enjoyment as she took her first bite, the sound sending sudden waves of desire through Fenris. He couldn’t stop watching her lick the rich chocolate off the fork.

Catching the intensity of his gaze, her eyes darkened. She took up another forkful, holding it out temptingly. “Want some?”

“Oh, yes.” He leaned forward, taking the bite, letting the chocolate fill his mouth. “Mmm.” 

She dipped her finger into the heated chocolate in the center of the souffle, slowly licking it off and then sucking on her finger. Fenris could feel his pulse pounding in his veins. He left his chair, leaning over and kissing her. His tongue sought hers, tasting the chocolate. Evelyn’s arms went around his neck and she rose from the chair, pressing her body against his. Fenris’s hands cupped her firm rear, holding her body between his and the table as he devoured her mouth.

“Come upstairs,” he said, his voice thick with want.

He’d been afraid she might hesitate again, but she whispered her assent. Catching her hand in his, he took a candle from the table and led the way to the second floor.

In the dining room and the meal, he had accepted, even sought, assistance. The bedroom had been all his own. He’d found a bedstead still in good shape, fixed the peeling wallpaper, even purchased a new mattress and pillows. The candlelight flickered softly over the walls as he lit the sconces and then turned to look at Hawke’s face. It was everything he’d hoped for. Her eyes traveled from the repaired walls to the soft rug in front of the fireplace—unnecessary in mid-summer, but promising cozy winter nights—to the bed, freshly made with brand new linens and turned down invitingly.

“Fenris. You’ve—This—I never expected anything like this. It’s lovely!” A shadow passed over her face. “But … I have to ask. The … you know, your pets—they’re not going to be, um, watching, are they?”

An impulse struck him, and he couldn’t help giving in to it. With exaggerated sincerity, he said, “Oh, no, I took care of that.”

“You did?”

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “Yes. I gave the snake free run of this floor.”

Her eyes bugged out of her head, and she shrieked, jumping on top of the bed. “Snake? You have a snake, too?” She was frantically pulling at the covers, searching the floor.

He couldn’t help it—the laugh came from nowhere, surprising him. Unable to stop it, he collapsed on the edge of the bed, the unfamiliar glee bubbling up inside of him.

Hawke stared down at him, the truth dawning. She snatched up a pillow, throwing it at him, but that only increased his amusement. “You are a wicked man.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to rein in his unaccustomed mirth. “I truly could not help it.”

“Apparently I’m going to have to teach you a lesson, then.” She launched herself at him, knocking him over, finding a heretofore unknown ticklish spot at the side of his neck. Laughing, he rolled her over, pinning her underneath him, holding her there with the weight of his body. The nature of her struggles changed and she licked her lips, her breath suddenly coming faster.

He bent his head, kissing her deeply, his hand cupping the side of her face. They exchanged slow kisses, their bodies pressed together. Gradually their hands moved, removing pieces of clothing, caressing the bare skin revealed, until they were both naked. Evelyn had shifted so that she straddled him, her body outlined in the light of the candles. Fenris’s hands began at her thighs, moving up over her hips and sides until his thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts. She raised her body above his, slowly enveloping his length in her heat. He had never been able to watch her so clearly. Her breasts moved with her as she slid up and then sank down again. Her lower lip was caught in her teeth, her eyes closed, and Fenris nearly forgot his own pleasure in the sight of hers. He caressed her breasts, rubbing the nipples and flicking his thumbs lightly across them, and she moaned, her rhythm increasing. Slowly he drew one hand down her body until he found the small bud between her legs, moving his fingers in a circle over it.

Evelyn cried out, grinding herself into his fingers on every downstroke. Her head fell back on her shoulders as she called his name, coming down a final time as she shuddered against his hand.

She moved off of him, her breathing slowing. Fenris kissed her temple, and then her cheek, and then her mouth, briefly, before moving down her neck and over her collarbone. Slowly, not rushing, kissing the tops of her breasts, sucking lightly on a nipple, letting his tongue follow the line of her ribs. He felt the beginnings of a new response in her, the restlessness of her hands in his hair, the little moans she gave as he found each sensitive spot. Her body arched eagerly to meet his mouth as he tasted her, oh, so quickly, and she whispered his name in disappointment as he moved further, lifting a leg so he could nuzzle the inside of her thigh and kiss the back of her knee. Her other leg moved aside, as well, inviting him, and he couldn’t hold back any longer. He sank himself deep inside her, holding still as he looked into her eyes, gently pushing her hair off her face. He ached to say the words, the ones he knew she wanted to hear, but he couldn’t yet. Not with the memory of Danarius forcing his confession. 

Evelyn pulled his head down to hers, kissing him, and he was struck anew at her generosity of spirit. Never once had she asked, in word or deed, for those words, which only made him the more determined someday to be able to say them to her. He began to move within her, telling her with his body what he couldn’t bring himself to say. The scent and taste and feel of her were all around him, and he lost himself in her, everything falling away but the two of them in this moment. He shouted her name in his release, feeling the ripple of her muscles around him that said she had accompanied him. 

Silence enveloped them as they lay together, a silence that in Fenris’s mind cried out for declarations, and suddenly the words were there, words he had never before been free to say. “I am yours.”

Her blue eyes glistened in the faint light from the candles, as though she were crying. “And I am yours.”


	35. A Wolf By Any Other Name

“So Aveline walks over to the leader of the mercs, kicks him in the head, and says ‘And that’s what you get for disrespecting my city.’” Donnic looked around proudly. “Isn’t she wonderful?”

“Wonderful,” Hawke said. She smiled at her friend, who was doing her best to hide behind Donnic. Aveline was uncomfortable with her pursuit of duty being framed as heroism, and Donnic never tired of telling tales of his wife’s deeds.

“Seriously, loverboy, didn’t my talk on storytelling conventions sink into your thick head?” Varric gestured with his mug for emphasis. “It would have been a much better punchline if—“

He was interrupted by a loud clearing of the throat behind him. Hawke looked up over the dwarf’s shoulder to see an expensively armored man standing there. She noticed a group of similarly equipped men by the Hanged Man’s front door. “Excuse me, is one of you Serah Hawke?” the man asked in a heavily acccented voice; Antivan, if Hawke had to guess. His gaze traveled over them all, dismissing Merrill, focusing briefly on Aveline, and then moving in Hawke’s direction.

She waited until his eyes met hers before nodding. “I’m Hawke. And you are?”

“Nuncio Caldera Lanos, at your service.”

Hawke somehow doubted that he was here to do any services for her. It was entirely the opposite, she suspected. “What can I do for you?”

“Ah, you are Fereldan. I forget how … direct your countrymen can be.” It wasn’t a compliment. “Perhaps we can repair to somewhere more quiet?”

Over Nuncio’s shoulder, Hawke glimpsed Isabela at the bottom of the stairwell. The pirate melted back into the shadows, watching the Antivan.

“There’s nothing you can say that won’t be shared with my team later. And I’m afraid I’m not in the habit of going into the back rooms of the Hanged Man with strangers,” she said. Next to her, Fenris folded his arms over his chest and glared up at the Antivan. 

“I see. In that case, I will be blunt. My men and I are in search of a very dangerous elf—a murderer.” If he expected the word to cause a sensation he was in the wrong group of people, and entirely the wrong part of Kirkwall. “This man has killed … many people. Including some children. And a dog.” Nuncio looked at Hawke hopefully, clearly counting on the Fereldan affection for dogs to get the shocked reaction he was looking for. 

She decided not to disappoint him. “A dog? That’s horrible!”

“Yes.” Nuncio nodded with satisfaction. “You can see why such a man must not be allowed to remain free.”

“I certainly can. But what do you need me for? Surely such well-equipped men as you are can handle one murderer.” She was impressed by her friends’ poker faces. Only Donnic was smirking, the others remaining stony-faced, although she could see the twinkle in Varric’s eyes and the slight uplift of Fenris’s eyebrow.

“As well we could,” Nuncio blustered. “But in this case …” He came closer, speaking more quietly. “He has hidden himself among the Dalish, which is one place we cannot follow.” His eyes drifted to Merrill and over Fenris and back to Hawke. “I have heard that you have connections with the Dalish.”

A brief flash of white appeared at the bottom of the stairwell, as Isabela turned and went back up. Hawke wondered what was going on there—she decided to get rid of this buffoon quickly and find out what Isabela knew. She turned back to Nuncio. “You want me to use my connections with the Dalish to find and capture your killer.”

“Exactly.” Nuncio rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. “There is coin in it for you, of course. You may find us—“

“Camped outside the city,” put in one of his men, who had come up behind him. Nuncio cast an annoyed glance over his shoulder at the man, who completely ignored him, continuing, “You can find us there when you have the man in custody.”

“Count on it,” Hawke said. She stood up. “Gentlemen.”

“Serah.” Nuncio bowed again, turning to go. His men followed him out the door, the outspoken one staring boldly at Hawke in a way that made Fenris stand up next to her.

“Come on,” she said to Varric as soon as the Antivans were gone, moving toward the stairs with Fenris close behind her.

“Wait, let me get my notebook,” Varric said. “If I have to watch you two, at least I can take notes for the story.”

“There is a story?” Fenris asked in discomfited surprise.

“Of course there’s a story, elf. There’s always a story.”

“Stop teasing, Varric,” Hawke said. “We’re going to check on Isabela.”

As it happened, the pirate wasn’t in her room. Hawke leaned against the door. “Wonder what she knows that we don’t know?”

“That those men were imbeciles, and almost certainly Antivan Crows?” Fenris asked.

“Clearly something else, since even we could tell that,” Hawke said. “I guess we’re going to Sundermount tomorrow.”

“Great,” Varric groaned. “More time outdoors. I seem to recall a time when I didn’t know you and hadn’t seen green grass in months. That was a good time.”

“You were bored to tears and you know it.” Hawke smiled down at the dwarf, who shook his head, but with a twinkle in his eyes.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The next morning, Hawke headed over to Merrill’s house in the Alienage to convince the elf to come to Sundermount. She hadn’t lost hope of reconciling Merrill with her clan at some point.

She knocked on the flimsy door, but there was no answer. Hearing voices inside, she pushed the door open. “Merrill?”

“Back here.”

Hawke walked to the back of the little house, to Merrill’s bedroom.

Varric was there, mid-cajole. “Come on, Daisy. If you don’t get some sunshine, you’ll wilt.”

“I’m not a plant, Varric!”

“You’ll never become one if you don’t get some fresh air?” he tried. Merrill couldn’t repress a smile. 

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” she said.

“Can’t help it, Daisy. The way you hole up in here with that mirror … it’s unhealthy.”

“I second that,” Hawke said. “Come with us this morning, get out a little.”

“I can’t,” Merrill said, her mouth turning down. “All this time … I was supposed to go back with the mirror, to say to the Keeper, ‘look, I saved a piece of our history’. They’d all understand.” She looked up at the mirror. “Why won’t you work?” 

“That’s it,” Hawke said. “You’re coming with us.”

“No!” Merrill said in panic. “Not to Sundermount. I can’t face the Keeper today. But I promise, I’ll go out. Maybe I’ll go to Darktown and give Anders a hand.” She must have seen the looks passing across Varric’s and Hawke’s faces, because she smiled. “I won’t try to heal anyone with magic, but even I can tie on a bandage. Really, I won’t stay in here all day.” She cast the mirror another black look. “It refuses to work, anyway.”

There was little chance of changing Merrill’s mind once she’d made it up, Hawke knew. For such a slender, delicate-seeming person, Merrill was surprisingly unbendable. “All right, then,” she said. “Come on, Varric.”

The dwarf looked disappointed, but he followed Hawke out the door. “She talks to that thing, you know,” he said when they were far enough away to avoid being heard.

“I know.”

“I can’t let her throw herself away on a broken piece of glass.”

“You can’t stop her from doing it, either,” Hawke said, looking sympathetically down at her friend. “All you can do is be there to … pick up the pieces.”

“I hope you mean of the mirror.” Varric grinned, and Hawke was relieved to see his sense of humor intact. He nudged her in the ribs. “Elf ahead.”

Fenris was waiting for them at the gates of the city. For Varric’s sake he was trying to cover his obvious relief that Merrill wasn’t with them, but Hawke could still tell.

It was a lovely day to be taking a walk, warm and sunny. Fenris closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun, giving an almost imperceptible sigh. Sometimes Hawke forgot he was from the north and used to hotter climates. Someday maybe she could take him back to Seheron. If he wanted to go, which she wasn’t at all sure of. She didn’t know what he wanted out of his future—except that he wanted it to be with her, and for now, at least, that was enough.

The guards at the edge of the Dalish camp crossed their arms, glaring at them. “What is it this time, shem?”

She frowned, having grown rather tired of this constant hostility over the years. “I have some questions.”

“Ask, then.”

“Fine. I understand there’s an elven murderer hiding near the camp.”

To her surprise, the guard nodded. “He’s in a cave at the end of that path.” He swept an arm in the direction of what might have looked like a trail, if she stared at it hard enough.

“Well, that was easy,” Varric said.

The guard glared down at the dwarf. “He told us he would be pursued, and to put up no defense. Otherwise never a word would you have heard from me.”

“Of course.” Hawke turned toward the path before further words could be exchanged. The guards and Fenris hated each other cordially—some kind of Dalish versus city elf feud underscored by Fenris’s ever-present bitterness toward elves who had never been enslaved. 

Varric went first, but his sharp eyes weren’t needed. The only evidence of traps were pieces scattered along the edge of the path. “Rivaini’s been along here.”

Hawke had suspected as much. It was even more obvious as they approached the cave, from which rather unmistakable sounds were emanating. 

“So Isabela … knows the assassin, then,” Fenris remarked after a particularly loud cry of pleasure broke the stillness.

“She does now, anyway,” Hawke said. As the sounds showed no sign of slowing, and she hadn’t made the trek out here for her health, she raised her voice. “Isabela! Let’s make this a sprint instead of a marathon, shall we?”

“Anything for you, sweet thing,” came the pirate’s throaty voice, followed by a masculine moan.

Hawke, Fenris, and Varric waited outside while the activities inside the cave built to a crescendo. Carefully, Evelyn didn’t look at Fenris, because if she did she’d think about the noises he made in the same circumstances, and then she’d have to ask Isabela to move over and give them some room. With some annoyance, Hawke remembered it was Wicked Grace night, so Fenris wouldn’t be coming over this evening. 

Finally Isabela emerged from the cave, followed by a blond elf in rather revealing leathers. “You must be the Hawke of whom Isabela speaks so warmly,” he said. “Zevran Arainai, at your service.”

“You’re the assassin Nuncio’s afraid of?”

 

The mention of Nuncio caused the elf to instantly seem less foppish. “I am,” he said, and Hawke believed him. 

“What is it that sets you apart from all the other Crows?” Fenris asked, folding his arms.

Zevran eyed Fenris with interest. “I see I must make room for a trip to Tevinter in my schedule,” he said, and Fenris flushed. “To answer your question, my broodingly handsome new friend, I am no longer a Crow. Since the Crows make a rather large point of there being no ex-Crows still alive, they would like to make me as imaginary as they pretend I am. But I rather enjoy living, so I would like to convince the Crows that it is in their best interests to forget I ever existed.”

“What are your odds of that?” Hawke asked.

Zevran grinned at her. “I tend to finish what I put my mind to.”

“Don’t listen to him, Hawke,” Isabela said. “He doesn’t always succeed. How did that contract in Ferelden work out for you?” She nudged Zevran in the ribs.

He looked abashed. “I admit, I failed to kill the Grey Wardens. Which turned out to be quite intelligent of me, did it not?”

“You know, I met the Hero of Ferelden in Denerim,” Isabela said, “and she told me she killed you. Now here you are, alive and in full working order.”

The elf’s brown eyes twinkled at Hawke. “I am ridiculously awesome.”

Isabela shook her head. “You’re also impossible.”

“And you, my beautiful pirate, are in danger. This is why I came to Kirkwall, in hopes that I could evade the Crows long enough to get you a message.”

“This didn’t come up before?”

He shrugged. “You were naked before. I do have priorities. Besides, it was best to wait for your companions.”

“What did you do now, Isabela?” Hawke asked. 

The pirate looked mystified. “Couldn’t say, sweet thing. Maybe a jealous husband?”

There was a pause as all three men eyed Isabela speculatively. 

Hawke cleared her throat. “What kind of trouble is Isabela in?”

“I hear that Castillon is in Kirkwall,” Zevran said.

“But you gave the relic back, I thought,” Hawke said, looking suspiciously at Isabela, who didn’t answer, turning toward Zevran instead. 

“Thanks for the warning. Can you stay and help?” she asked.

“Alas, if Nuncio is looking for me, there will be more behind him. Some of them may be competent.” Zevran looked at Hawke. “Care to help me decimate the Crows a bit further?”

“I believe we have time for that,” she said. “They’re in a camp on the Wounded Coast.”

“Lead on, you beautiful bird of prey.” He bowed gallantly, and Fenris quickly stepped between the two of them. “Ah, so it is that way, is it?” Zevran sighed. “I do not know which of you to be more envious of.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Nuncio’s guard, the one who had spoken up in the Hanged Man, was watching for them. He came forward to meet the group as they approached, glaring at Zevran, who grinned back. “You found him, Champion.”

“I did. Clearly, a vicious killer.”

“Don’t let his looks deceive you,” Nuncio said. “Or do. It matters not, since we’re going to have to kill you all.”

“Ah, Nuncio, how tiresome you are. No appreciation for the niceties,” Zevran said.

“The bitch is Fereldan. Niceties are lost on dog lords like her.”

They were Nuncio’s last words, because Fenris’s fist was buried in his chest almost before he had stopped speaking. Bianca called out sweetly, burying her sharp tongue in the eye socket of the big guard, while Hawke exercised her blade and Isabela and Zevran put their daggers to work. It was a tense battle for a few minutes, as Crows seemed to pour out of the underbrush, but Hawke’s team hadn’t fought together for nearly a decade without learning a few things, and Zevran was very, very good.

As he removed his dagger from between the ribs of the last Crow, Zevran pointed with his free hand. “You may have Nuncio, Alberto, and that portion of the camp.” At Hawke’s surprised look, he grinned. “You do not expect me to believe you were not going to loot the camp, do you? It seems only fair that we should split the spoils, do you not agree?”

“Always the practical one,” Isabela said, laughing. For half an hour or so there was quiet except for the exultant cries that signaled particularly good finds. At last they gathered by the ashes of the campfire, their packs nicely full. “What will you do now, Zev?” Isabela asked.

“Since I am still wanted by the Crows, it appears I shall survive as a soldier of fortune.” He turned to Hawke. “If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find me, you can call on Zevran Arainai.” With a parting kiss for Isabela, he was gone, melting into the scenery.

“Well, that was vague,” Varric said. He frowned up into the sun. “And here we are miles from Kirkwall.”

“Yes, but we got all this stuff,” Isabela said. “That has to make the walk worthwhile.”

“If you say so.”

Fenris and Varric moved ahead as they walked back to Kirkwall so Hawke could talk to Isabela in privacy.

“So … Zevran.”

“Yes, funny story. He killed my husband.”

“Really. You have to pay him much for that?”

Isabela laughed. “No, lucky me, someone who hated my husband even more than I did paid for it. Then, well, Zev was stuck onboard the ship, and …”

“Say no more. I heard enough back at the cave.”

“Elves, eh?” Isabela grinned, and Hawke was forced to grin back. “Any juicy details you want to share about our lanky friend? No?” The pirate looked disappointed.

“Anything you want to share about Castillon?”

Isabela’s good humor faded immediately. “It’s possible that I never gave back the relic.”

“After all that? Why in the Void not?”

“He has something I want.” The pirate’s voice was harder and more serious than Hawke had ever heard it before. “As long as I have something he wants, I knew he’d have to come after me eventually. And now he has.”

“I suppose you’re going to want some help.”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

“I don’t suppose you have an actual plan?”

“Well …”

“Great.” 

“I thought maybe you’d have some ideas,” Isabela said.

“We could kill him.”

“No! I mean, we’d have to find him first, and then there would be questions and it would come back to me and his men would come after me and …” She stopped herself with an obvious effort. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Obviously.” Hawke had never heard the pirate babble in quite that way. “What about luring him into an alley?”

“He’s too smart to be lured. He’d just send his henchmen.”

“I have it! If we can’t lure him, we make him lure us.”

“Try that one again?” Isabela’s forehead wrinkled.

“What if I turn you over to one of his men? Then we follow you to wherever Castillon’s hiding out and deal with him there.”

“And what if you lose track of me and he kills me before you can get there?”

Hawke glanced sideways at her friend. “When have I ever let you down?” she asked, subtly stressing the “I” and “you”.

“All right, all right, I get your point.” Isabela studied her boots for a few steps. “Good plan, then.”

“You’ll need to find out which of Castillon’s men is in Kirkwall and where he can be found, and we’ll put on our little show tomorrow night, once we’ve had a chance to prepare.” 

They parted at the gates of Kirkwall. Isabela, Varric and Fenris headed to the Hanged Man for Wicked Grace night while Hawke went home.

Without Fenris’s company to look forward to, she planned an early night. A light meal—fresh salad from the garden and a chilled soup, hot-weather cooking being a specialty of Orana’s—and a relaxing bath in her room. After a long soak, Evelyn was just considering getting out of the water when she heard familiar light footfalls on the carpet outside her room, followed by Fenris’s particular knock.

“Come in,” she called out.

His green eyes widened and took on the glow that never failed to set her heart racing. Immediately he began undoing the clasps of his armor, and Evelyn leaned her head back against the edge of the tub, watching avidly as his body was revealed to her, the play of the muscles across his abdomen making her lick her lips in anticipation.

“I wasn’t expecting you tonight, Fenris,” she said lightly. Without thinking, she said, “Is that what you want me to call you?”

Fenris’s hands stilled on the waistband of his leggings, and Evelyn could have kicked herself. She had wondered, of course, in the months since Danarius’s death, if her lover would want to continue using the name Danarius had given him, but she hadn’t intended to bring it up. At least, not this soon, and certainly not in this setting. 

His eyes, now flat chips of malachite, met hers. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, Fenris, I mean, that’s the name that—“ She bit her lip, wishing she could turn the clock back the few seconds needed to keep her sodding mouth shut. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“But you did say something. I want to know what you meant.” His tone brooked no disagreement.

She felt suddenly very exposed, naked in the water under that flinty gaze. “I just wondered if you’d rather … if there’s something else you’d like to be called.” Shrinking back in the tub, she pulled her knees up to her chest.

“Do you mean, does it make me uncomfortable to continue using the name given to me by the master who destroyed my memories, used me as a plaything, and turned me into a walking weapon?” His jaw clenched.

“Yes. That’s more or less what I meant.”

“Well, then, yes, it does. Thank you so much for bringing it up. What exactly do you suggest I do about it?”

His eyes were flashing dangerously, and Hawke stood up, reaching for a towel, wanting to be less vulnerable. She made sure the tub full of water was between them before she said, “Your sister called you—“

“Do not dare to speak that name to me.” 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” 

Fenris gave a harsh laugh. “And you think that makes it all better. You apologize, so I should just forget it and go on about what we were doing, is that it?” With that incredible speed of his, suddenly he was before her, his eyes filled with a punishing desire that excited Evelyn as much as it frightened her. For a moment she considered just letting it happen, finding out what it felt like to be at the mercy of all that controlled fury. The idea made her knees weak. But it wouldn’t help. She took a step backward, pressing against the wall. 

“No. Not like this, Fenris.” She spoke the name out of habit.

“Make up your mind, Evelyn. Which is it to be?” 

“It was a simple question!” she protested. But it wasn’t, and they both knew it. 

They glared at each other for a moment before he turned his head aside. “ _Venhedis_!” He turned, collecting the top half of his armor from the carpet.

Evelyn didn’t try to stop him. In this mood, he needed his space, and she wasn’t sure she wanted him to stay. Once he was gone she sank onto her bed, her body shaking with a sudden cold. Would they ever be able to work through these issues, or would they remain hidden, exploding under her feet when she least expected them?  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The following evening, with no sign of Fenris all day, Hawke walked into the Blooming Rose, accompanied by Aveline and Varric.

“Look at them,” Aveline muttered, motioning towards two of her guardsmen who were laughing with one of the Rose’s employees. “I’ll have them on docks duty for a week!”

“Later,” Hawke said, locating Isabela nursing a mug in the corner.

The pirate stood up as they approached. “Oh, good, you brought the big muscles. She’ll be happy to rough me up a bit, I’m sure.”

“Anytime, whore.”

Isabela flashed a nervous grin. “So Castillon’s right-hand man Velasco is upstairs with a girl right now. Do we wait for him to finish, or …?”

“No time like the present.” Hawke grabbed Isabela by the ear, tugging her up the stairs.

“Ow!” Isabela whispered.

“Just making it look real,” Hawke said, finding this quite therapeutic. She considered kicking the door down, but Madame Lusine made such a fuss when they broke things. She knocked instead. “Open up!”

A very annoyed-looking Rivaini opened the door. “What?”

“Present for Castillon.” Hawke jerked her head toward Isabela. “Unless he doesn’t want it anymore.”

“Oh, he wants it.” Velasco opened the door wider. “Get,” he said to the elven prostitute, who fled without another word. 

Hawke pushed Isabela into the room.

“You won’t take me this easily,” Isabela said, twisting out of Hawke’s grasp and running for the door.

“Not so fast.” Aveline blocked the doorway, punching Isabela in the jaw. The pirate staggered back, wiping a trickle of blood from her lip, and Velasco caught her by the arms.

“I’ll get you for this,” Isabela spat.

“What?” Hawke asked, feigning innocence. “This is just like that time with the book, and the Qunari, only, much, much funnier.” She grinned wickedly at Isabela before looking to Velasco. “Good luck.”

He reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a couple of sovereigns and tossing them to her. Hawke caught them deftly. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“What now?” Aveline muttered as they walked back down the stairs. 

“Now we wait. And we watch. And we worry about the guardsmen tomorrow,” she added sternly, as Aveline looked over at them with a frown.

“Right.”

They didn’t have long to wait. In just a few minutes Velasco made his way downstairs with Isabela at his side. Her hands were bound behind her, and Velasco was hauling her along so fast that she stumbled and nearly fell down the stairs twice.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Aveline said under her breath.

“He’s all yours. Unless she kills him first.”

“Let’s hurry, then.”

They let Varric go on ahead, tracking Velasco through Lowtown and onto the Docks. Hawke and Aveline followed Varric at a discreet distance. 

“That one,” he said when they caught up, jerking his head toward a warehouse at the end of a row. “Been pretty quiet in there. Too quiet.”

“Let’s make some noise, then,” Aveline said.

Isabela stood with Velasco in the center of the room. She looked up with relief as the front door splintered. “What took you so long?” Sliding her hand out of her bonds, she pulled a dagger from her cleavage and plunged it into Velasco’s throat. “That’s for getting handsy on the way over,” she hissed as he went down.

The sound of slow applause came from the top of the stairs. “Very nice, Isabela. I wondered how you were going to get to me. But did you have to take out Velasco on the way?”

Isabela pulled a fat coin purse out of … somewhere, and tossed it to the man on the stairs. “I did you a favor. He was skimming.”

“You’d have killed him anyway.”

“True. He was scum.” Isabela turned to the others. “Hawke, Aveline, Varric, Castillon.”

He gave them a courtly bow. “Now, Isabela, where is my relic?”

“It’s safe. Until we conclude our business.”

“Oh, we have business now? I thought you told me to stay out of your business.”

“That was before you took the ship.”

“It was my ship.”

“It was not! Grandfather left it to me, and you took it right out from under my nose. I want it back.” She crossed her arms over her chest. 

Hawke had been on the receiving end of a pout like that often enough to follow what was happening. “Perhaps this might have been easier if you had told me he was your brother,” she said. “You know, at any point in the last ten years!”

Isabela shrugged. “What difference does it make? He’d have killed me if he caught me with the relic. Wouldn’t you, Francisco?”

“I would have sent you back to Mother where you belong.”

“Same difference. You think I’m going to let her sell me off again for a few gold and a goat?”

“What’s to stop you from taking the ship and keeping the relic?”

Hawke had had enough of these arguments in her own family to last her a lifetime. She stepped forward. “I’ll make sure of it. I’ve heard all I ever want to hear about this damned relic.”

“She’ll give it back to you or she’ll get real familiar with the inside of a cell,” Aveline said.

“Some friends you are,” Isabela said. 

Castillon straightened. “It appears I have no choice. You are fortunate to have such devoted friends, Isabela.”

“Don’t you wish you had the same.” Isabela smirked at him.

“I believe our business is concluded. Perhaps you ladies will do me the kindness to leave so I can untie my men and find a ship to take us away from this foul pit?”

“And where is the _Temptress_?”

“In the harbor. She will be awaiting your command. My relic?”

“Is at Grandma’s. Good luck getting it from her!”

“Someday I have to meet your grandmother,” Varric muttered.

Isabela laughed. “Maybe I’ll make her first mate on the Temptress of the Seas. It’s named for her, after all.” 

Castillon glowered down at her and Isabela blew him a kiss. “Until next time, Francisco.”

Once they were outside, Isabela paused, looking across the habor. The water sparkled in the moonlight, camouflaging the muck and trash that floated in it. She breathed the sea and fish scent in deeply. “I can’t believe I have my Temptress back! What did you think of my brother?”

“And I thought my little sister was trouble,” Hawke teased. Isabela punched her lightly in the arm. 

“What’s your plan now, Isabela?” Aveline asked, trying to look casual.

“You going to miss me, big girl?”

“Not if you don’t leave.”

“I think I’ll stay on in Kirkwall for a while. I’ve taken a shine to the place … and the people.” She smiled at them. “And you know, there’s always a place for you all on my crew. You can even bring those handsome men of yours along. And of course, the sweet little kitten.”

Varric busied himself wiping a speck of dust off Biaca’s stock. From the faraway look in her eyes, it was clear Aveline was picturing Donnic in a pirate’s costume. All Evelyn could picture, though, was the dark look on Fenris’s face before he stalked out of her room the night before. Isabela looked at her curiously, but didn’t say anything, and they headed for the Hanged Man.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Evelyn was deep into her third mug, elbows resting on the bar, when she became aware of a presence beside her. She didn’t turn, but waited for him to speak.

“I am sorry. I had not given the matter of my name sufficient thought, and the question … took me by surprise. It is an interesting speculation. Which is more me, the name I was given that is the only one I can remember, or the name I was born with that I have no memory of whatsoever?”

She turned, leaning her hip against the bar. “We could come up with a new name.”

“Perhaps. But it occurs to me that a name is given meaning by the people who use it.” Fenris’s green eyes met hers. “I do not know who called me by my birth name. Mother, sister, lover, if there was one, all are lost to me. You, and our friends, call me Fenris. To deny that as my name would be to remove myself from all of this,” he gestured around them. “It would be to deny what I feel when you call me by it.”

“What do you feel?”

He looked down as if searching for the words. Then, in front of the entire population of the Hanged Man, he caught her by the waist, pulling her to him. “This,” he whispered, just before his mouth claimed hers, pouring into the kiss all the complex emotions he couldn’t manage to put into words.


	36. Mages and Templars

“Serah Hawke!” 

At the shout, Hawke looked up from the lemons she was inspecting. The young Templar Trevor was barrelling through the marketplace with utter disregard for what, or who, might lie in his way. He tripped over someone’s string bag full of mangoes, nearly ran over a small girl studying a display of candies, and came very close to getting his ear cut off by a butcher with a meat cleaver. Hawke exchanged a glance with Varric, putting the lemons back.

“You know, you run through here on market day, someone’s going to tie a banner on you and use you as an advertisement,” Varric said to the young Templar as he reached them.  
Hawke took Trevor firmly by the arm, pulling him out of the busy marketplace toward a slightly quieter corner where they could talk. “You have news?” she asked him.

He nodded, still breathless. “They have her in the Gallows. The ritual is planned for tomorrow night. Serah Terrien himself plans to be there to watch.”

“Is that allowed?”

“If you pay the Knight-Commander enough money, it is,” Trevor whispered. “They go way back.”

“Sodding nobles,” Varric muttered.

“She’s locked up. I can’t get near her—I’m too junior,” Trevor said.

Hawke took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. How to get a young woman out of the Gallows? “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To see a friend.”

“Hawke, are you sure about this?” Varric asked. “Blondie’s not exactly … himself these days. Either of his selves.”

“I know, but he’s our best bet.” 

Outside the door to the clinic, Trevor balked. “With all due respect, Serah … Can we trust him? He’s a bit … well …”

“A bit?” Varric asked. “Talk about your understatements.”

“I know he is.” Hawke sighed. 

“The Mage underground is broken, Serah,” Trevor said, his voice barely audible. “Knight-Commander Meredith has cracked down, Anders himself—what he did to Ser Alrik several years back …”

“Let’s at least go talk to him.” The few alternatives to Anders’s help that Hawke could think of were risky at best.

Anders was bent over a desk in his office, scribbling madly. He looked up when they came in. His eyes were sunken into his head, glittering feverishly, and his face was thin and worn. 

“Maker, Hawke,” Varric whispered. “When do you think he eats? Or does Justice disapprove of that, too?”

“Hawke, Varric,” Anders said, getting up. “To what do I owe this—“ He stopped speaking when he caught sight of the Templar, his face turning as white as flour. “Why did you bring him here?” Hawke could see   
the tendons standing out in his neck and the flare of blue deep in his eyes as Justice stirred within him.

“Anders, we need your help,” she said, moving toward him quickly and stressing her use of his name. “A young woman is about to be made Tranquil on the whim of a rich and powerful man.”

The emotion that had agitated him seemed to drain from his body. His shoulders slumped. “I can’t help you. Don’t you remember? I nearly killed that mage. Justice was—I couldn’t control him.”

“I know, but Anders, that was three years ago!”

He looked at her sadly, shaking his head. “I can’t risk it. The danger is too great.”

Hawke bit back the angry words that wanted to be said, searching for a convincing argument, but before she could grasp one, a bundle of rags in the corner unfolded itself. The old woman who had healed Trevor long ago, and who was often to be found loitering outside Terrien’s, advanced, glaring up at Anders, who jumped back, startled, his eyes wide and wild. Clearly he hadn’t known she was there. Hawke remembered the scene this same woman had made so many years ago, when she had called forth Justice in the middle of the market. 

Anders shrank back from the old woman. “Don’t touch me!”

But she grasped his wrist anyway, her dark eyes staring up into his. Anders appeared unable to look away, and Hawke could see the blue light beginning to glow in him as Justice fought to the surface. “I have told you before, woman, I am not here for you,” Anders said in Justice’s voice.

“I have been waiting, but that time is past. You are Justice,” she said. “You cannot let this happen!”

“There are greater things afoot than your troubles. I cannot be distracted from my great purpose by—“

“Injustice?” The old woman seemed to grow taller, her eyes glowing green. “What has happened to you?”

Justice seemed to falter under her intense look. “You would not understand.”

“I understand that you are a perversion of yourself. A terrible crime is about to be perpetrated, and you will help!” The voice was no longer cracked and high-pitched, but smooth-toned and commanding. 

“Anguish.” Justice took a step back. 

“Yes. And I demand Justice.”

The electric blue glow flashed angrily, but at last Justice sighed. “I will help. But this is the last time I will suffer interference with my purpose.” His head turned, his eyes finding Hawke’s, and she shivered.

The little old woman shrank down, staggering a bit as she moved toward Trevor. The young Templar, his eyes wide with fear, stepped aside so the old woman wouldn’t touch him as she passed. She cackled at him and he jumped, staring at the door even after it had closed behind her. 

Hawke turned to Anders, who had regained supremacy in his body and was leaning over his desk, his face ashen-grey. Without lifting his head, he said, “Is she in the Tower?”

“Yes.”

“Tonight, I assume.” His voice was hoarse and scratchy and he was sweating as though he’d run a long way.

“Yes. Anders, are you sure you can do this? Maybe you should … rest. Eat something.”

His brown eyes were dull, the light gone from them. “Of course. Rest, eat. Meet me at the tunnel entrance at ten. You remember the one?”

Not at all reassured by his words, she nodded. “Yes.” Turning to Trevor, whose mouth was still agape, she grabbed him by the arm. “Let’s go.” Varric stayed for a moment, but Anders waved the dwarf impatiently away, and he caught up with them halfway through the clinic.

“W-what was that?” Trevor asked once they were back out in Darktown. “The glowing colors, the voices … Are they abominations?”

“’There is more to mages than is dreamt of in the Chantry’s philosophy,’” Varric quoted. “Genitivi, I think.”

“The Chantry wants to see the existence of mages as black and white, and it isn’t.” Hawke met Trevor’s eyes. “Don’t worry, we’re going to get her out. But we’ll need more than just Anders to do it.” 

“Who do you think, Hawke?”

“Aveline can’t risk this kind of trouble; we can’t take Merrill inside the Gallows. Anders is bad enough. Sebastian would be outraged all over the Chantry and we’d all be in trouble with Meredith. Isabela seems like the best bet.”

“What about the elf?” Varric asked in surprise. 

Evelyn shook her head. “Not that different from Merrill. Get him inside the Gallows, all those Templars, all that lyrium … it makes me nervous.”

“He won’t be happy to be left behind.”

She sighed. “No.”

“It’ll be hard work making it up to him later.” Varric grinned.

“None of your business.”

“It’s all in the book, you know.”

“Varric, if I ever see so much as one page of that book …”

“You’ll be bowled over by the amazing sensitivity and depth of the writing?”

She tried to hold her frown, but the impudent grin on the dwarf’s face was contagious, and she laughed. 

Later that night, the three of them and Isabela met at the Darktown entrance to the tunnel to the Gallows. Anders was waiting for them, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed as though he were cold. 

“Blondie, are you sure you’re up for this?” Varric asked.

“I don’t have a choice, do I? Justice made an agreement; it’s up to me to follow through on it.”

“You need anything? Water, food, Antivan brandy?” Varric patted his coat. “Got it all right here.”

“No, I’m good. Thank you, Varric.” Anders’s face softened as he looked down at the dwarf.

“Let’s go, then,” Hawke said. She wanted to get in and out before Anders collapsed, and from the pallor of his skin, that might not take long. 

He led the way through the tunnels, the torchlight flickering off the dark stone walls. Trevor was silent behind them, Isabela a mere shadow bringing up the rear. They stopped at the heavy door that led into the Gallows cellars.

“We’re certain we want to do this?” Anders asked.

“We have to!” Trevor pushed to the front, shoving at the door, which squealed across the brick floor.

“Idiot!” Anders hissed. “We lift, then push.”

“Sorry.” Trevor looked around guiltily.

“You need to calm down or you’re going to get us all killed,” Isabela said, coming up behind the Templar. “Either you trust us to know what we’re doing, or you stay behind and wait.”

“No!” All four of them glared at him, and Trevor took a deep breath, speaking more calmly. “No, I trust you.”

Anders lifted the door, pushing it silently the rest of the way open, and gestured for the others to follow him as he led them through the maze of cellars to a rickety set of stairs. He caught Trevor by the collar. “First floor, ritual chamber?”

The Templar nodded.

Anders started up the steps. Varric followed him, then Hawke, Trevor, and Isabela at the rear.

At the top of the steps there was another door. Anders stepped aside to let Varric’s nimble fingers work on the lock. The door swung open and Varric cautiously stepped through. 

A sword whistled above the dwarf’s head, embedding itself in the wood of the doorframe. “Got you!” Hawke heard the clanking of Templar armor and then Knight-Captain Cullen’s surprised voice. “Serah Varric? What are you doing here?”

Anders lifted his arms toward his staff instantly. Hawke caught his elbow as it went up. “No. Very bad idea. Let me.” She pushed past him, ducking under the blade that was stuck in the door. “Knight-Captain.”

“Serah Hawke. I expected you, when I saw your companion here. What brings you to the depths of the Gallows in such a clandestine fashion?” He frowned at her suspiciously. “I admit, I expected you to attempt to free your sister years ago. I had thought you had given up and accepted that this is where she belongs by now.”

“I have.” Evelyn felt a pang of guilt; it had never occurred to her that someone might think she was here for Bethany. Sometimes she forgot her sister was here. “This is … something else.”

“What else?” Cullen peered into the darkness of the stairwell. “Who else is here with you?”

Trevor came forward into the light. “I am, Knight-Captain.”

“Trevor? What possible purpose could you have—“ 

“With all due respect, could we have this conversation without your backup squadron?” Hawke motioned with her head toward the shadows moving on the wall farther down the hallway. 

Cullen’s eyes met hers, studying her intently. He nodded. “Clear out! False alarm,” he said, raising his voice to be heard by the waiting men. There were rustles and clanks as they moved away. “Now, Serah Hawke, what are you doing here?”

Hawke took a deep breath, deciding to trust him. Cullen was nothing if not upright and honest, and she felt instinctively that he would be appalled by the miscarriage of justice being perpetrated. “Are you aware that preparations are being made to apply the Rite of Tranquillity to a young woman?”

“Yes. She’s an apostate—hidden all this time in the very house of Serah Terrien.”

“No! She is no apostate!” Trevor flew at his commander, his eyes wide with panic. “You mustn’t believe them.”

Cullen looked at the young Templar in confusion. “Of course she is. The Knight-Commander says so.”

“She is not.” Hawke met Cullen’s eyes. “The girl is no mage.”

“You must be mistaken. You barely know the girl; Serah Terrien lives with her.”

“Cullen, I grew up in a family of apostates. I have little trouble recognizing the signs.”

“You would say that in any case, since you are clearly attempting to break this apostate out of the Gallows.”

“My sister has been here for almost eight years, and I have never once attempted to break her out. Do you think I would take the trouble to lie about some apostate I barely know? Use your head, Cullen!”

He stared at her, his confusion written all over his face, and she waited while he considered her arguments. “Why would the Knight-Commander lie?”

Hawke could feel Trevor fidgeting, and she could almost sense Anders’s patience waning. “Maybe she isn’t lying, maybe she just believes what Terrien told her. Terrien has been trying to get the girl to marry him for years, and she refuses. He believes that making her Tranquil is a shortcut to forcing her to be docile.”

Cullen recoiled in horror. “Do you know what that can do to a person? There’s a book … _Rites and Rituals of the Chantry_. It describes what happened when a man who wasn’t a mage was made Tranquil once. He … His connection to the Fade was cut. Essentially, he could never dream again. No dreams, no restful sleep. It broke him. He went on a rampage, murdered half a town full of people before he was caught, and he laughed about it.”

“So you see what they’re trying to do. Will you help us rescue the girl?”

For a moment, Cullen wavered. But the uprightness and honor Hawke had counted on came through. “Yes. I’ll help you.”

He led the way, deep into the heart of the Gallows. To Hawke’s great relief, neither Anders nor Isabela appeared. She had hoped Anders would have the good sense to remain hidden from the Knight-Captain, and she trusted that Isabela was remaining concealed but following in the shadows. 

There was a small suite of rooms at the end of a long hallway. The door at the very end was practically glowing with all the wards and enchantments that had been placed on it. Hawke assumed that must be the ritual chamber. The door on the left was slightly ajar, and Hawke could hear the clink of glasses and a low conversation between several men. She nearly froze in place, nudging Varric, who shook his head. He, too, had recognized one of the voices as that of ex-Guard Captain Jeven. Of course, Terrien’s lieutenant would be here, guarding Terrien’s property, Hawke thought. On the bright side, she supposed, she might get to kill Jeven, which would certainly be satisfying.

A single Templar stood outside the last door, his head swaying slightly as though he was half-asleep inside the big metal helmet.

“Snap to!” Cullen said. “Is that any way to approach your duties?”

“N-no, serah, sorry, ser!”

“Take a walk. Ten rounds.”

“Yes, serah!”

Hawke was under no illusions that it would be this easy. She was relieved to see that Varric wasn’t either. He took a couple of steps backward to position himself better in case the hallway suddenly filled with Templars. Not that she was sure how they would manage that—she could hardly come into the Gallows and start taking out Templars, not even with the Knight-Captain’s help.

With the Templar out of sight, Cullen cast a cleanse on the area, releasing any magical locks, and reached for the doorknob. As soon as his metal-gauntleted fingers touched it, sparks flew up from the contact. Cullen crumpled to the floor. Hawke called his name, bending down to check his pulse.

“Out cold,” she said.

“Well, shit.” Varric stepped forward, inspecting the doorknob.

The door on the other side of the hall swung open, and Jeven stepped out. “Serah Hawke! Can’t say I’m surprised that it’s you—you’ve always stuck your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

“Jeven,” Hawke said evenly, stepping quickly in front of Varric to shield the dwarf’s activities as he worked to disable the trap on the doorknob. “Still being paid to do other people’s dirty work, I see.”

“You and your friend caused me a lot of problems,” Jeven said, stepping forward. She could see a trio of armed men in the room behind him. The four of them they could manage, but only if they could keep the noise down and avoid attracting more Templars. “But look what you’ve done to the Knight-Captain. Tsk, tsk. Can’t have dangerous subversives like you running around.”

Hawke heard a faint click from behind her, clearing her throat to cover it. Before she could respond to Jeven, Trevor pushed himself in front of her. “You’ll never harm her!” 

“Boy, give up. It’s over for you.”

“Never. Not even if … you’ve already done it.”

Was it possible it was already done? Hawke felt a sudden fear that they were too late. But if they were, wouldn’t the girl already be back at Terrien’s? Either way, it was time to get moving. They couldn’t stand here talking all night. Tensing her muscles, she shoved Trevor aside and planted a booted foot square in the middle of Jeven’s crotch. Even with a codpiece, the force of the blow staggered him back, moaning and clutching himself. The other men in the room came forward, but the door acted as a bottleneck.

“Hurry up with that door, Varric,” she said. The guard took a swing at her with his sword. She caught his arm midswing, bending his elbow backward until the sword fell from his fingers. Hawke grabbed the man by the back of the helmet, shoving his face into the doorframe. He fell without another sound. 

“Aha!” The door swung open under Varric’s hands.

Hawke pushed Trevor at the open door. “Get in there and get her. I don’t care what condition she’s in. I’ve got this.”

Varric moved aside as the Templar ran into the room, calling out “Susannah!”

The other two men were in the hallway now. Hawke ducked a sword thrust. Next to her, Varric kicked in the swordsman’s knee. When he crumpled to the ground, the dwarf gently stepped on his unprotected throat until the mercenary stopped squirming. The fourth man, sword poised above his head, glanced over at his fallen companion, but before he could act a wicked dagger flashed out of the darkness, tumbling end over end until it sank into his unprotected armpit. He staggered sideways, moaning, and the dagger was followed by a long, brown leg that kicked him in the back. He gasped for air, falling to his knees. Isabela switched legs, landing a vicious kick to the back of his head, and he fell prone on the carpet. 

“Thanks,” Hawke said.

“Anything for you.”

Cullen was groaning now, struggling to sit up, and Hawke helped him get to his feet. “I’ll be all right,” he said. “Do you have her?”

Trevor staggered out with Susannah in his arms. “I think they drugged her.”

“Hurry, then,” Hawke said. “We need to move quickly.” Trevor went on ahead with Varric. “Thank you, Cullen.”

“This is all very … surprising. I will have to look into it. Now, go, before you are caught here. We will talk at another time.”

They were almost to the tunnel entrance when Hawke heard shouts from behind her. She was flooded with relief to see Anders waiting there; she’d been half-convinced he would have left rather than risk being caught in the Gallows. “Go!” he said. “I’ll cover you.” He raised his hands and a blue shield appeared across the hallway behind Hawke. Varric had already disappeared into the tunnel door; Trevor tucked Susannah more firmly against him and ducked inside as well. He’d be moving slowly down the rickety steps with his burden.

She followed him as soon as the steps were clear. Behind her, Isabela poured something from a small vial onto the door’s lock. “They won’t enjoy that,” she said quietly, chuckling to herself. She followed Hawke, and then Anders dropped his shield and stepped through the doorway, pulling the door shut behind him.

The trip back to Darktown was tense, all of them expecting to have Templars waiting for them when they got out. But the tunnel entrance was clear, and only the usual denizens of Darktown were there. 

“Where can we go?” Trevor asked, turning worried eyes to Hawke.

“Best place for both of you is the clinic, where Anders can keep an eye on her.”

Anders turned, mouth open to voice a protest, but he closed it again, staring at someone over Hawke’s shoulder. She turned to see the old woman, her face soft and her eyes wet, looking hungrily at Susannah. Anders’s shoulders slumped. “I appear to have no choice. But it’s temporary,” he said to Trevor.

“Of course. Thank you, serah!”

“I’ll go with them,” Varric said. “Keep an eye on Blondie.”

“Thanks, Varric.”

Isabela threw her arm over Hawke’s shoulder as they walked out of Darktown. “Never a dull night with you around, sweet thing. Hm, speaking of …”

“Whatever intimate detail you want to ask about, the answer is ‘none of your business’.”

The pirate laughed. “No asking. I have a present for you.”

“For me?”

“Something to liven up your evening.”

“I … can hardly wait.” Knowing Isabela, it could be anything from a skimpy pirate costume to a monkey. And the Rivaini’s chuckle at Hawke’s hesitance didn’t improve her trepidation. She accompanied her friend to the Hanged Man, loitering in the doorway of Isabela’s room while the pirate tossed things around, digging in the bottom of her trunk and turning her duffle bag inside out. 

“Ah! Here it is.” She emerged from under her bed with a leather-bound folio manuscript in her hand. “For you. Wrote it myself.”

“Thanks.” Hawke opened it up, flipping through the pages. “’She wouldn’t rest until she had ridden him like the prize stallion he was. Grasping his knob of delight …’ Isabela!”

“What?” The pirate blinked innocently at her.

Evelyn shook her head. It was no use trying to reform the woman—once a pirate, always a pirate. “It’s a lovely gesture.”

“I bet your personal stud will think so, too. Do let me know what his reaction is, will you? I could write a whole new story about it.”

“You and Varric and your stories. Can’t you think of anything better to do with your free time than write smutty stories?”

“What could be better than that? Other than living the smutty stories, that is.”

“You are impossible.” Evelyn turned away. “I’m going home.”

“Lucky girl,” Isabela called. “Have fun!”

Despite Isabela’s suggestion, Hawke had no intention of letting Fenris see the folio. She’d hide it in the midst of a shelf full of Chantry sermons when she got home, she promised herself.

She let herself into her bedroom, surprised to see Fenris already there, stretched out comfortably on her bed, reading a book. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you. How did your expedition go?”

“As you see, I made it out in one piece.”

His eyes took on a wicked glint. “It is difficult to be certain of that while you’re still wearing your armor. Perhaps you should take it off.”

“Good idea.” Distracted by him and by the warmth already building inside her body, she forgot about hiding Isabela’s folio, leaving it carelessly at the foot of the bed. She twisted around to reach the buckles on her breastplate. Behind her, she heard Fenris moving on the bed and smiled, waiting for his dexterous fingers to help her with the buckles. Instead, she heard the flap of pages.

“What is this?”

“No, don’t read that!”

But it was too late. “’The ship bucked in the waves like a prize filly under a stallion. Onboard, Captain Evelina Ravyn was waiting for her first mate, known only as The Wolf, to arrive in her cabin.’ What manner of book is this? If it is for a reading lesson, I will note that I surpassed this level of writing long ago.”

“It’s Isabela’s. She gave it to me. As a gift.”

“Did she? Hm.” He flipped a few more pages. “’The Wolf stripped off his shirt, revealing tattoos that defined his manly muscles. Captain Ravyn could feel the juices of desire already moistening her nether cleft.’ Her ‘nether cleft’?”

Hawke could feel herself flushing. She dropped her breastplate on a chair and sat down to remove her boots. “Isabela likes to get creative?” She reached for the hem of her undershirt, the thin, sweaty fabric surprisingly erotic as it glided over her skin.

“Apparently so.” He sat back against the pillows, flipping a few more pages. “’The Wolf thrust deep into her channel, his hunk of throbbing man-meat burning a path between her legs.’”

The heat in the room was rising. Evelyn realized, to her consternation, that she was cupping her breasts, the nipples hard already.

“Mmm,” Fenris said with appreciation. “It appears someone finds Isabela’s writing surprisingly … inspirational. Do continue.”

Evelyn cleared her throat. “Only if you do.” With some embarrassment, she motioned toward the folio. “And only if you never tell Isabela about this.”

“Agreed.” He opened the folio again, and his delicious voice rolled over her in deep waves. “’Captain Ravyn lifted her bounteous breasts for The Wolf’s hungry mouth to consume …’”

She unhooked her breastband, massaging her breasts, pinching and tugging at the nipples to relieve the ache there, before slipping off her pants and smallclothes, leaving herself naked before him.

“You are astonishingly beautiful.” Fenris’s eyes were glued to her body. “Shall I continue? Do you desire more?”

“Yes. Please.” One hand continued to squeeze her breast, the other moving down between her legs, gathering the moisture on her fingertips and rubbing the sensitive nub.

“Very well.” It was a hoarse whisper as he continued. “’Gathering her raven tresses in his fist, The Wolf thrust and thrust and, uh, thrust again.’” Fenris’s free hand was inside his leggings now, and he glanced from Evelyn’s body spread before him to the book and back. “His … manhood swelled to … mmm … fill the flower of her … ah … womanhood with his nectar’ … Evelyn!”

Evelyn had slipped her fingers inside herself, rubbing with her thumb, her hips moving against her hand. She was close, she was so close. Pressing hard with her thumb, pushing her fingers deep inside as her hips rose off the chair, she cried out his name. She sank back into the chair, gasping for breath.

Fenris was groaning on the bed, his hand moving faster on himself. “Ah!” He stiffened, his leggings darkening with a wet stain. After a moment, he opened his eyes, smiling at her across the room. “Remind me to thank Isabela.”

“I thought we agreed we were never going to mention this to Isabela.” 

Fenris chuckled, reaching for a towel to clean himself off. “Keeping her in suspense as to our reaction to her gift? You clearly have still not forgiven her for her actions during the Qunari attack.” He held his arms out. “Come here, _me anim_.”

She crawled across the bed, lying down next to him with her head on his shoulder.

“You saved the girl.” 

“Yes. She’s at the clinic, being cared for. They had drugged her, but hadn’t performed the ceremony yet.”

“You left her with that abomination?”

“Trevor’s there with her. I doubt he’ll take his eyes off her until she’s awake. And Varric went along, to keep an eye on Anders.” She considered sharing her concerns about Anders, but Fenris’s lack of sympathy for the mage made that conversation worse than useless. “Why are you so concerned?”

“She may be … connected to someone I know.” His arm tightened around her. “Does it not tire you, doing so much on behalf of others? You do it time and again, put yourself in harm’s way for people you barely know, and yet you are always willing to do so again.”

Warm and comfortable here with him, she considered giving a light-hearted answer, but his voice was serious. “It does get tiring. Sometimes … I don’t always want to be the one out in front, with all the attention focused on me, the one who stands to lose the most if I fail. But who else is there? I am in the best position to fight, and so I do.”

He spoke slowly, as though the thought was a new one. “Will you always want to be out in front, as you put it? Or do you envision a day in which you can put down that burden, when you let someone else take up the standard?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

She sat up, draping her arms over her knees. “On Meredith, I suppose, on what happens in Kirkwall, on whether I get injured.” Evelyn turned her head, smiling at Fenris. “On you.”

“Why on me?”

“If you asked me to stop being the ‘Champion of Kirkwall’, to run away with you somewhere … else …” She shrugged.

“You would?”

“Wouldn’t you, if the tables were turned?”

He sat up, kissing her shoulder. “Gladly.”

“Are you? Asking that.”

“No. Unless you wish me to do so.”

Evelyn laughed. “Not yet. But I’ll tell you when.”


	37. Here Be Dragons

Fenris swung his feet to the floor and walked across the room to the washstand. The cloth on the left was slightly damp and hung askew—Evelyn had already dressed and gone downstairs, it seemed. He took the cloth on the right, his cloth, wet it, and began giving himself a sponge bath. Six months ago, his most optimistic fantasies would have fallen short of this level of easy domesticity. It still felt strange, the idea that a woman as beautiful and intelligent and capable as Evelyn could be happy being with him.

After he brushed his teeth, he hung his toothbrush up on pegs provided for it. He, Fenris, kept a toothbrush in the Champion of Kirkwall’s bedroom. Fenris was bemused by his own happiness. He had never considered such a thing a true possibility until suddenly, there it was in his lap. Literally. He smiled, remembering last night. She had been greedy and demanding and utterly magnificent; he was the luckiest of lucky men.

The evidence of their passion was strewn all over the room. Neither of them had been particularly interested in folding their clothes once they’d taken them off. After years of living in squalor, Fenris had discovered he had a bit of a neat streak, especially in Hawke’s home. He bent, picking up their clothes, putting his own on, sorting most of hers into the laundry. Her pajamas lay on the floor at the foot of the bed; no point leaving those out, he thought, feeling himself stir with anticipation. He certainly had no intention of her wearing them to bed tonight. Picking them up, he folded them and opened the drawer she kept them in.

As he placed the clothing in the drawer, something crackled. He shifted things aside, wondering if something had been in the pocket of her pajama top that he should remove. His fingers brushed against a piece of paper, and he drew it out, glancing at it to see if it was something necessary.

Fenris took a step back, staring at the letter he held. He knew that writing, the over-careful, slightly wobbly printing. Why did Hawke have a letter from his sister in her pajama drawer?

Shoving the drawer closed with his foot, he sat down on the bed, unfolding the letter.

_Serah Hawke,_  
I do not know your relationship to Leto, but I think it is my duty to warn you about him. Leto has a long history of dallying with women and left a trail of broken hearts behind him when he chose to abandon his family and enter Magister Danarius’s competition. One in particular, a young woman named Meria, entrusted him with her maidenhead. He immediately forgot all about her in his position as high and mighty bodyguard to the Magister, as he forgot everyone who had helped to place him there. But Meria has not forgotten him. When I informed her that Leto is now a runaway who murdered his master and won his ‘freedom’, she begged that I would write and remind him of what they once meant to each other. She says that she still loves him.  
As Leto made it plain that he never wants to hear from me again, I write to you instead, and I add my caution to you, as I have cautioned her, that Leto is first and foremost interested in himself, and has no interest in others beyond what they can do for him. Take care, Serah.  
Your humble servant,  
Varania Satria 

He reread the letter, his hands trembling. Was this what his family had thought of him? The family he had dreamed of and longed for all those years thought of him as an arrogant and self-centered heart-breaker? And had he left women behind who pined for him? Meria … He closed his eyes and reached into the darkness at the back of his mind. Occasionally, now, he could grasp and hold onto a glimpse of his past, but here there was just a flash of curly blonde hair. Nothing more. He was disappointed—surely, if the woman cared enough about him to still be interested after all this time, shouldn’t he be able to remember her?

And what of Hawke? Why had she kept this from him, hidden it away where he would be unlikely to see it? By the date at the top, the letter must have arrived in Kirkwall several days ago, and Hawke had clearly read it. More than once, to judge from the creases in the paper. Did she believe this of him? Did she despise him for what he had done in his past? For what purpose had she concealed this information?

He felt a sinking feeling, a lack of trust where a moment ago his trust had been endless, and he found himself profoundly disappointed in Hawke for having hidden this from him.

The doorknob turned, and he hastily crumpled the letter, shoving it into the pouch at his belt.

“Rise and shine!” she said cheerily, poking her head in the door. “Oh. You’re awake. I was hoping you’d still be asleep and I’d get to wake you up.” She grinned at him.

“No doubt you were,” he said. “I am sorry to have exceeded your expectations.”

She frowned. “Not exceeded, exactly,” she said. “It just would have been more fun my way. At any rate, I think it’s better you’re up. We’d have been late for our appointment otherwise, and it’s best not to keep the King waiting.”

Of course. They were expected to meet with the King of Ferelden today. The King who, by all accounts, was handsome, charming, and, oh yes, a hero of the Blight. “By all means, let us avoid inconveniencing the King,” he said, his tone of voice saying the exact opposite.

“Maybe you should let me do the talking. Or Varric. You don’t seem at your best today,” Hawke said. He could feel her eyes on him as he brushed past her without a kiss or a touch, and he squared his shoulders, too annoyed and upset to care.

Varric joined them for a quick breakfast, the dwarf’s eyes darting between the two of them. Fenris smarted under the scrutiny. Who did Varric think he was, always watching everyone, passing judgment on other people when he had no life of his own? Fenris’s irritation mounted under the easy banter between Hawke and her friend. They were to meet Aveline at the Keep, so Fenris walked behind the others, listening to their ongoing conversation.

As they walked up the steps toward the keep, Varric volunteered to be Hawke’s mabari, since no self-respecting Fereldan would greet her king without one. Hawke smiled at her friend and said, “I love you, Varric.” The dwarf hemmed and hawed and would have blushed were he capable of such a thing, and Fenris felt a stab of bitterness and jealousy that was nearly a physical pain. She never said those words to him. Sometimes she would use them casually—“Much as I love you,” or “Love you though I do”—but she had never looked at him the way she looked at the dwarf and said “I love you, Fenris.” He admitted, he had never said them to her, but he couldn’t. Every time he imagined doing so, he remembered Danarius forcing the confession from him. Pushing that word past his closed throat seemed like a physical impossibility. But Hawke had no such shaming memory to stop her, and yet still she didn’t say it.

It was beneath him to doubt her. He knew it was, in some dimly heard rational part of his mind. But darkness was closing in on him, darkness that was almost welcoming in its familiarity, and he hadn’t the strength of will to fight it. Not today. Not with his sister’s hateful words burning against his hip. 

He followed the others up the steps of the Keep to where Aveline waited, the normally stoic Guard Captain fidgeting with her scarf, polishing bits of her already-shining armor, tapping her foot impatiently as she watched them climbing the steps. “Hurry up! He’s the King of Ferelden, he has more important things to do than wait for the two of you. Three of you,” she amended, seeing Fenris several steps behind the others. “Sorry, Fenris, didn’t see you there.”

Of course she hadn’t. Fenris scowled. 

Aveline met his scowl with her own, putting her face very close to his. “Listen here. I don’t know what burr is stuck under your hide today and I don’t care. I have waited almost ten years to meet the King of Ferelden, and if you ruin this for me I am marching right into the Seneschal’s office and telling him you’re squatting in a Hightown mansion and have been for years. Am I clear?”

“Perfectly.” He schooled his features into the mask he used to wear in Danarius’s presence. “Better?” Fenris was all the more irritated that she seemed unaware that he was deliberately acting like a slave.

There was a whispered conversation between Aveline and Hawke as they proceeded up the stairs that Fenris could hear perfectly clearly—“What’s his problem?” “I don’t know; he’s been like this since he woke up.” “Something you didn’t do last night?” “Shut up or I’ll sic Isabela on you.” “Say no more.” 

They reached the upper-floor apartment King Alistair was staying in during his visit to Kirkwall, and Aveline announced herself to the guardsman standing at attention outside.

“Yes, ser, Captain Aveline.” Donnic grinned at his wife. “It’s a good thing you announced yourself; I might have had trouble recognizing you.”

“Don’t be facetious, Guardsman. It’s unseemly.”

“Yes, Captain.” He went inside, announcing their arrival.

A broadly Fereldan voice called out, “Please, Donnic, show them in.” 

Fenris followed the others, standing near the door and hoping to be dismissed as a simple servant. Usually he would have taken offense at such a thing, but today it was preferable to enduring the scrutiny of this strange king.

As if to make Fenris’s day even worse, the King was big. Very big. Tall, blond, and good-looking in an exceedingly masculine way. In other words, very much Hawke’s usual physical type. Fenris had spent years despairing of his own lean frame and comparative shortness after watching the kind of men who took Hawke’s eye. He remembered that the King of Ferelden was currently unmarried. Engaged, yes, to marry the Hero of Ferelden, but engaged, even to a woman he had apparently loved for a decade, wasn’t the same as married. Fenris crossed his arms, feeling the scowl etch itself on his features afresh.

The King came forward, looking completely unregal in a pair of breeches and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “Let me guess, the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“I am Evelyn Hawke, Your Majesty.” She went down on one knee before him, Aveline next to her.

“Please, call me Alistair,” he said, reaching out his hands and gesturing for the women to get up. “After all, if I understand correctly, you and I could have met in Lothering under far different circumstances.” He grinned at Aveline. “You must be Guard Captain Aveline. Donnic has told me about you in many glowing terms while he’s been escorting me around the city. I see he didn’t exaggerate. Nor did the stories about you, Serah Hawke.”

“Evelyn, please.” She smiled up at the king.

Evelyn? Just like that? None of them called her by her given name. That was Fenris’s special privilege, something he hugged close to himself, and here she was just giving it away to this big oaf?

‘Call me Alistair’ looked past Hawke to her companions. “You have to be Varric. A pleasure. And you must be Fenris.”

“Yes. Apparently I must.” Reluctantly, he took the proffered hand, shaking it as briefly as he could. “You are most well informed.”

The grin widened, if anything, completely undimmed by Fenris’s abruptness. “Nathaniel. He’s a sourpuss, but somehow Thora can get him talking.” His face softened as he mentioned the Hero, and Fenris felt a sudden kinship with the man. It would have been nice to have liked this boyish king, he thought, and felt an additional, and completely irrational, stab of resentment that he couldn’t. Alistair looked at Hawke. “Apparently you’re … acquainted with an old friend of hers.”

“Yes. She has reason to be concerned,” Hawke said.

“That bad?” The grin fell away from his face. “Please, come sit down. This gets into the topic I wanted to discuss with you.” He led them to his seating area. “Knight Commander Meredith is displeased that I won’t ship Fereldan citizens back to her just because she claims they’re apostates.” He sighed. “I can’t buck the Chantry, but I won’t have my people imprisoned in Kirkwall.”

“With all due respect, Your Ma—uh, Alistair,” Aveline said, “most of the Fereldans in Kirkwall would look on imprisonment as a step up.”

He winced. “I know it. I wish I had been able to bring them home a long time ago. Now I think many of our best and brightest here in Kirkwall don’t want to return.” His gaze swept over Hawke and Aveline with regret, and Fenris bristled anew.

Hawke smiled, letting the comment pass. “I think Alistair’s right, though. It’s Knight-Commander Meredith and the mage situation that should concern us.”

“What can the nobility of Kirkwall do about putting a new Viscount on the throne here? I am surprised that Meredith’s rule has been tolerated here this long.” Alistair leaned forward.

“She’s too smart to bite the nobles,” Varric said. “If it doesn’t itch, they won’t feel the need to scratch it.”

Fenris kept his jaw firmly clenched, knowing all too well that his particular views on mages, Fereldan or otherwise, would not be appreciated in this setting. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs toward the guest apartment, and then a whispered conversation from the hallway. Moving closer to the door, he recognized the voices as those of Donnic and Hubert, who co-owned the Bone Pit mines with Hawke. Hubert had complained about the mines several times over the years, but this was the first time he had voluntarily come searching for Hawke. Usually, he preferred to send her a message and let her come to him. Fenris glanced over his shoulder at the others, who were deep in conversation, and quietly let himself out of the apartment. “Is something amiss?”

Hubert’s nose wrinkled with disdain at being asked to converse with an elf. Fenris waited deliberately for the other man to speak. At last, Hubert threw his hands up in the air. “It is that accursed mine again! A cart rolled in bearing the bodies of dead miners. The only one alive was the horse who pulled the cart. All the mages in Kirkwall, and none of them can speak to a horse!”

“And this was enough to send you here to disturb Serah Hawke in an audience with the King of Ferelden?” The censure was plain in Donnic’s voice.

“Someone said they saw …” Hubert looked around at the nearly empty hallway, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. “A dragon!”

Donnic looked to Fenris, who said, “Dragons have infested those mines for years. Very small dragons.”

“Not this one! This is a huge dragon, enormous!” Hubert’s voice was rising.

A high dragon, if such a thing truly haunted the Bone Pit, was a serious problem for the city. “Hawke will want to know about this,” Fenris said.

“The King may be interested, as well, since most of the workers are Fereldan refugees,” Donnic pointed out.

The two of them went inside the suite, Hubert on their heels. “Hawke,” Fenris said, cutting through the conversation.

Seeing Hubert, she stood up. “Excuse me, Alistair. This is my business partner, Hubert.”

“Oh, pardon me,” Hubert said, more flustered than Fenris had ever seen him. “Your Majesty.”

“Serah.” Alistair had gotten to his feet as well, and nodded to acknowledge Hubert’s bow. 

“I’m a little busy,” Hawke said.

“Hawke, you must come. The Bone Pit—“

“Again?”

“What in the Maker’s name is the Bone Pit?” Alistair asked.

“It’s a mine.”

“Formerly worked by slaves, whose bones were left there to rot. Hence the name,” Fenris put in.

Hawke said, “Currently, we employ mostly Fereldan refugees.”

“If by employ, you mean pay half as much for twice the work you’d get out of a Kirkwaller,” Aveline said.

Without looking at Hubert, Hawke said, “I try to mitigate some of that, but …” She winced.

“I see. Maybe I’ll come with you, then, see the conditions my former countrymen are working in for myself.” The easy friendliness was gone, replaced by a harder, admittedly more regal, look.

“But Your Majesty, you cannot!” Hubert gasped. “They tell me a dragon has been seen in the area.”

“A dragon?” The King’s eyes brightened, while Hawke and Aveline looked dismayed. 

“Your Majesty—Alistair—you mustn’t accompany us,” Aveline said. “We can’t be responsible for the King of Ferelden’s safety if there’s really a dragon.”

“You won’t be responsible,” he said. “And it can’t hurt to look. We’ll come back for reinforcements if we find anything. Besides, I’ve fought dragons before. Have any of you?”

“Only small ones,” Hawke said. “I met a dragon once.”

“Met a dragon? You wouldn’t by any chance mean Flemeth, would you?”

“Yes. Do you know her?”

A strange mixture of emotions crossed his face. “You could say so.”

“I hate to break up this discussion of mutual friends,” Varric said, “but Bianca’s getting hungry for some dragon meat.” He patted the crossbow lovingly. “If you’re coming with us, I might suggest something more flame-resistant.” He nodded at Alistair’s comfortable clothes.

“Right. On it.” The King disappeared into his bedroom, from which the sounds of armor hastily being donned immediately issued forth. While Varric inspected Bianca, and Aveline and Donnic argued in whispers over whether they could allow the King to go along and whether Donnic should accompany them, too, Hawke moved closer to Fenris.

“Are you all right?”

“Do I seem ‘all right’?”

“No. But I can’t figure out what’s happened since last night.“

“This is certainly not the time for me to enlighten you.” He pushed past her. Perhaps she didn’t deserve it, but he could still feel that letter weighing down his belt pouch, still feel the sting that came from her concealment of it. Whatever her purpose had been in hiding a piece of his past from him, he had it now, and the part of his mind that wasn’t angry with Evelyn pored over the faint image of Meria uncontrollably. The dimly recalled face had laughing blue eyes now, and a turned-up little nose to go with the curly blonde hair. He wanted to be able to visualize her, wanted to know how this woman had made him feel. Had he truly cared for her? 

“Ready.” The King appeared, fully armored, looking every inch the warrior. It was easy to believe he had fought an Archdemon and lived. Fenris was suddenly very curious what the Hero of Ferelden must be like. His experience with dwarves was mostly limited to Varric—he wondered if this Aeducan woman was similar. He couldn’t quite picture Varric facing down an Archdemon, but he was certain that if Hawke asked him to, the dwarf would make the attempt.

“Your Majesty, I must protest. Surely you have guards, retainers—it seems unsafe to have you wandering about Kirkwall like this,” Aveline said.

“Like what? Accompanied by the Guard Captain and the Champion of Kirkwall?” Alistair laughed. “A King who hides behind large retinues of armed men doesn’t get to see much of the real world. It’s too easy to lose touch that way.”

Aveline looked as though she was about to argue with Alistair, but it seemed obvious it would be wasted breath. With a resigned sigh, but a sparkle in her eyes at the thought of seeing a dragon, she signaled her husband to join them. Hubert, as always, let the rest of them go face the potential danger and headed toward his shop in the Hightown market. 

Aveline and Donnic led the way. Varric and Hawke flanked Alistair, and Fenris followed behind.

“Evelyn, you have to tell me how you met Flemeth,” the King said, moving easily in his armor.

“Are you sure you want me to tell it? Varric’s version is much more interesting.”

“I can imagine that. Let’s try yours first and then see how his stacks up.”

“All right, but only if you tell me how you met her, as well.”

“Deal.”

Hawke launched into the story, carrying on a merry conversation with the big, handsome King of Ferelden. They made a good-looking pair, laughing and chatting like old friends, Fenris thought gloomily. 

No one was laughing when they reached the Bone Pit, however. Bodies—or parts of bodies—were strewn everywhere, as though a giant child had thrown her dolls around in a tantrum. And above it all, the heavy beat of wings and the booming blast of the dragon’s roar.

The dragon wheeled above them, crying out in derision. Fenris could feel the heat of its breath and the wind from its wings. It flew down into the quarry. 

“That’s the best place to fight it,” Hawke said. “We can’t wait for reinforcements. Varric, can Bianca shoot that far?” She motioned to the edge of the cliff surrounding the quarry, clearly hoping to keep the unarmored dwarf out of the line of fire.

“She’s not quite up to that, I think, Hawke. Don’t worry about me—I know when to stay back. Flames aren’t good for this fabric.” He brushed imaginary dust off the lapel of his coat.

“Let’s move, then, before the dragon does.” Hawke stopped in midstride, looking at Alistair. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, would you rather …?”

“No, no, I’m used to following women in battle. I wish Thora were here—it’d be interesting to see the two of you fight side-by-side.” The look he gave Hawke was admiring, and Fenris found his fists clenching of their own volition. He looked forward to working out some of this aggression on the dragon.

Hawke led the way, sliding her blade from its scabbard. “We need to cripple it, first, before we can try to kill it. Wings, legs. Varric, eyes, if you can.” There were nods and murmurs of assent, and Hawke ran forward toward the dragon, which had landed on an open section of sand. The air was full of flame, heated by the great gouts of fire that flew from the dragon’s open mouth.

Fenris dodged a fireball and followed Hawke, circling around behind the dragon as Donnic, Aveline, and Alistair attacked from the front, shields held up to protect themselves, however inadequately, from the dragon’s flaming breath. The giant wings beat the air. Aveline was blown back by the rush of wind the wing sent forth. She limped slightly as she got to her feet and returned to the fray.

Quarrels shot through the air, several of them sticking in the dragon’s snout, irritating it enough to slow the buffeting motions of its wings. Fenris and Hawke took the chance to get closer to the wings, slashing at them. Hawke managed to make a giant tear through the membranes. 

The dragon screamed in rage and pain, turning its head to blast Hawke with its breath. She ducked, rolling under the wing, which flapped at her, much of its mighty power gone. The three swordsmen in front shouted, attacking the dragon’s chest and legs, to draw its attention back to them. It screamed, lashing out with a clawed front leg. Donnic threw himself in front of Alistair. The claw caught him a glancing blow along the side, knocking him to the ground. The King helped Donnic up, both of them advancing together. Fenris felt the lyrium leap to life along his skin and an idea struck him. He dropped his sword to the ground, climbing onto the dragon’s tail. The spikes in his gauntlets helped him maintain his grip as he worked his way up toward the dragon’s back.

Fenris gripped with his knees, grateful for the flexibility of his unusual armor, hitching himself up bit by bit, focusing on clinging to the smooth black hide and on moving that next little bit further up. 

The dragon seemed to realize something was amiss, and it craned its neck, sharp teeth nipping along its own skin looking for the irritant on its back. Fenris shrank away from the gleaming teeth, revolted by the dragon’s foul breath. There was a way yet to go, and he had little idea how the fighters on the ground were doing. The dragon twisted back, shrieking, its torn wing hanging uselessly. Above its cries, he could hear Hawke calling his name, but he couldn’t distinguish the rest of her words, or her tone.

He was on the neck now. There was no chance it could reach him with its teeth, but he could easily be sent flying by the jerky movements of the head if he lost his grip. The good wing moved restlessly, trying to brush him off. He held his grip with determination. Dimly he heard the shouts of those fighting on the ground, and a crossbow bolt embedded itself in the dragon’s neck just above where he clung. He grasped it, using it to pull himself up even further. Just a few more movements until he could reach his objective.

The dragon’s screams of anger and pain vibrated under his hands as he drew closer to its head. He took a deep breath, taking a better grip with his legs as the dragon flung its head about. Adrenaline pumped through his body, exhilarating him. Life-or-death though the moment was, there was a thrill in feeling such a powerful creature beneath him, helpless to defend itself from his powers. Fenris felt the cool blue energy of the lyrium all along his skin. Visualizing the dragon’s brain, he thrust his hand through its skull, reaching for the lumpy grey mass. He closed his hand around the brain and yanked, pulling it through and holding it aloft with a cry of triumph.

The head fell to the ground, and Fenris rode it down, leaping off as it landed. 

Aveline sat heavily down on the sand, breathing hard. Donnic bent over her, casting a grin at Fenris. “Show-off.”

Alistair came up from his side, wiping his sweaty face with a cloth. “Impressive.”

A quick glance accompanied by a muttered “thanks” served to let him know that none of the injuries were serious; Aveline seemed to have twisted an ankle and Donnic had a fair-size burn, but both were already applying health poultices to their wounds. Varric came up from the back, looking unruffled.

“Had to make it look easy, didn’t you, elf?”

“We cannot all get by merely on an overabundance of chest hair,” Fenris said, pushing past the dwarf and looking for Evelyn. Her sword lay near the remnants of a stone wall; Fenris rounded the corner and found her leaning against what had once been the interior of a building. Her head was tilted back, her eyes closed. “Hawke?”

“You!” She opened her eyes. “You damned stubborn elf! I said cripple it, not nearly kill yourself with some kind of macho heroics!”

Her anger fueled the emotions pumping through him, adding to the exhilaration of killing the dragon. He felt a surge of adrenaline that expunged any remnants of rational thought. Without a word, he pinned her against the wall, his lips finding hers with crushing force. 

Evelyn gave a squeak of surprise before her mouth opened for him, her teeth closing on his lower lip until he tasted blood. Her strong hands gripped his hips.

He tore his mouth away from hers, pushing her head to the side and biting her neck, hard enough to mark her. His hips twisted from side to side, rubbing himself against her through the thick padded pants she wore. 

“Maker, yes!” She wrapped a leg around his thighs, pulling him closer.

Fenris needed no further encouragement. He reached between them, yanking down the pants and her smallclothes with them, his fingers pressing into her. They sank inside easily, her body already wet and ready for him. He thrust with his fingers, not taking the time to be gentle. She moaned, moving with him.

Evelyn pulled his leggings down, freeing him, and Fenris replaced his fingers with his length. They bucked urgently against each other, excitement surging through them, their breath coming hard and fast. He caught her chin with one hand, bringing her mouth to his and kissing her savagely, his tongue thrusting in time with the frenzied rhythm of their bodies.

He felt her clench around him, and his hips jerked against her, the tension leaving him. He leaned his head against her shoulder, feeling her arms around him, her fingers stroking his sweaty hair.   
She said, “When I saw you up there, riding that dragon, I thought—I was afraid—“

The momentary respite from his anger was over; he felt it boiling in his veins all over again. Fenris pushed himself away from her, righting his leggings. “You did not trust me. Again.”

“Again? When did I ever not trust you?” Her blue eyes, so soft a moment ago, hardened with hurt and confusion. She hastily pulled her clothes back into position.

Fenris reached into the pouch at his hip and withdrew the letter, shaking it at her. “Were you ever going to inform me about this piece of correspondence? My sister writes to you with information about my past and you keep it hidden from me?”

Her skin turned pale. “It isn’t that I didn’t trust you. I just—“

“What did you ‘just’? Do you simply not care for me enough to consider that I might wish to be told of this?” Some part of him was cringing at his own hateful and unreasonable words, shocked that he was deliberately causing the pain he saw in her eyes. He drew his indignation and his own hurt close around him, hiding in it, telling himself that she deserved it.

“Not care for you enough? Fenris, I lo—I care for you very deeply.”

But he caught the half-said word, and he pounced on it. “Not enough to avow it, apparently. You are free enough with that word with Varric, even with Aveline, but not with me. It seems I am nothing more than a dalliance to you.”

Her hand came out of nowhere, cracking across his cheek and slamming his head painfully to the side. She spoke in the cold, measured tones she only used when she was very, very angry. “Did it never occur to you to ask? I don’t say that word to you because I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable about saying it back to me. I know what Danarius did must make that difficult for you.” She pushed past him, shoving him out of her way. At the edge of the ruined wall, she turned to look at him. “For your information, I’ve never been in love before, never said that word to a man and meant … everything I feel for you. I wanted to be able to say it to you knowing you were ready to say it back. But since you seem so willing to believe the worst, I’ll tell you. I love you, Fenris. I love you more than I knew it was possible to love someone. And I trust you absolutely. But it seems clear that you don’t trust me, or you’d have said something about that letter this morning instead of assuming the worst about me and stewing about it all day.”

Shame filled him; he had, indeed, immediately assumed the worst. He shrank back into himself, feeling small and petty. And out of that feeling, he spoke, nastily. “But we were going to be late to meet your precious King Alistair.”

Her lips thinned, her eyes hard and cold. “I would, of course, gladly have been as late as necessary, had you asked me to, since the topic is important. But you didn’t, and now I have other things to do.” She turned her back on him, walking away, and a moment later he could hear her too-brittle laughter at some witticism of the King’s.

He stayed where he was until they had all left, only then slinking out from behind the fragment of wall. Men were already coming down the path toward the quarry, beginning the work of dismembering the dragon. Fenris hoped Hawke would get her fair share of the dragon’s skin and bone, but he assumed she and Hubert would work something out between them. He couldn’t bring himself to be overly concerned—too much of his mind was taken up with wondering what she would say when he saw her again, how he would apologize, if he would apologize. The letter still troubled him.

His thoughts came to a sudden halt as he turned a bend in the path and found Donnic sitting on a rock. The guardsman stood up when he saw Fenris. “There you are.”

“You were waiting for me?”

“Aveline told me to stay here until you came by. She said not to bring you home until your head is out of your arse.”

“Charming.”

“My bride does have a way with words.” Donnic beamed.

Fenris grunted, passing the other man and stalking up the path toward Kirkwall.

Donnic fell into step beside him. “Something’s bothering you today. We’ve all noticed it.”

“Clever of you.”

“You might as well start talking. If I get back to Kirkwall and you aren’t ready to apologize to Hawke, Aveline won’t speak to me for a week. It’s also possible I might be able to help.”

The sincerity in Donnic’s voice was tempting, but it was difficult to speak, even with someone he thought of as a friend. “I … found a letter. From my sister, hidden in Hawke’s drawer.”

“Ah. What was the letter about?”

“Me. And the women I apparently dallied with before … before the ritual.”

“Why would your sister have written Hawke about that?”

“Because she—“ Fenris stopped. Why would Varania have written such a letter to a woman he had admitted to having feelings for? It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder.

“Do you think your sister might have wanted to drive a wedge between you and Hawke, and possibly manage to entice you back to Tevinter?”

That was the thing about Donnic. He spoke little, and when he did it was slow and stolid, but it all masked a very intelligent brain. “Possibly so,” Fenris admitted. “But it does not excuse the fact that Hawke hid the letter from me.”

“I would not presume to speak for the Champion, and I advise you to ask her yourself, but I will tell you this. Much as I love Aveline, and I am confident that she loves me in return, I find it difficult to think of her married to another man. I worry that I will never measure up to her first husband. Worse, I worry that Aveline thinks I will never measure up. She doesn’t, but that doesn’t prevent the thought.”

Fenris caught his breath. Could it be that Evelyn was jealous? But how could a woman like Evelyn possibly be jealous of women whose faces he could not even remember? It was a foolish notion. “Thank you for your advice,” he said, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

“But you don’t see how it applies to you. Very well.” Donnic squared his shoulders. They walked in silence until they reached the gates of the city. “Diamondback on Tuesday?”

Gladly, Fenris grasped at the gesture of forgiveness. “That would be pleasant.”

“See you then.” Donnic walked off in the direction of the Viscount’s Keep; Fenris turned toward Hightown Estates. He thought longingly of his study, the cases of wine in his cellar, the familiar darkness he could sink into if he were alone. And then he changed direction, toward Hawke’s estate.

Not wanting any of her servants to see him, he scaled the wall into the garden, taking a seat on her garden bench and waiting, a cacophony of thoughts moving through his mind, unable to focus on any of them. 

And then it came to him, the vision of a girl with blonde, curly hair, her mouth open in the throes of pleasure. Meria. He remembered, as well, the intoxicating flutter of his heart as he moved within her, a feeling he had never experienced before that moment. He rode the waves of remembered sensation, the sweetness of first love that he was feeling again for the first time.

“Fenris.” Hawke’s voice brought him back to the present, sending a warmth through him. It was nothing like the emotion Meria had brought out in him; it was far deeper, more heady than the finest wine, but comfortable. Safe. Sure.

For the first time today his thoughts were free of the bitter spitefulness that had taken him over this morning, and he trembled in the aftermath of the day’s emotions. He stood up.

“I need to explain,” she said. “About the letter. It isn’t that I didn’t trust you. I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of what might happen if you read it.”

“What did you think would occur?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Your memories … they terrify me.”

“Do you fear that somehow I am not who you think I am?”

“No. I know who you are. But you don’t know who you were. More importantly, you don’t know who you cared for, who mattered to you. I’m afraid there’s someone in your past …” She stopped talking and he could hear her gasp for breath.

“You do not trust me.”

“I do! But in the last decade, I’ve lost my father, my country, my brother, my sister, and my mother, all to situations none of us could control. I trusted them, too, yet they were still taken away from me. And I don’t know what I would do if I lost you, too. So I hid the letter, hoping I could keep it from you so that you wouldn’t be tempted to go back to Tevinter and find out if … if that woman truly has a claim on your heart.” 

“Why did you not destroy it?”

“I couldn’t. I knew, all along, that I should show it to you. I was hoping to work up the courage.” She turned away from him. “You have every right to be angry.”

Fenris closed the distance between them, grasping her upper arms and pulling her back against his chest. “I am not angry. Not any longer. It never occurred to me that you would be threatened by my past. The only reason I could imagine was that you believed the things Varania said of me.” He turned her around, looking into her eyes in the deepening twilight. “I have no desire to return to Tevinter. Yes, I would like to have my memories back. But no woman has a hold on me stronger than yours. None ever shall or ever could. And I have no intention of going anywhere without you.”

With a little cry of relief she came into his arms, burying her face against his shoulder. Fenris held her close. “I am sorry, too. I leapt to conclusions, made assumptions, and never gave you the chance to explain yourself, even in my mind.”

“Do you remember this woman?”

“Meria? I do remember her. I thought I cared for her at the time, but I realize that I did not know what it was to love someone. Not until now.”

Evelyn gasped, her arms tightening around him, and only then was he aware of what he had said. A glow of happiness suffused him—it was a victory over Danarius and everything the magister had stood for.

“What about your sister?” Evelyn asked. “Will you respond to her letter? Do you want to know all the things she can tell you?”

He moved her gently away from him, taking the letter from his belt pouch and deliberately ripping it in two. “My sister has nothing to tell me that I cannot recover for myself someday. With your assistance.”

“Gladly.” She yawned. “Let’s go to bed, start fresh tomorrow.”

“An excellent idea.” Fenris felt one of those rare, unstoppable smiles tug at the corners of his mouth. He kept his arm around her waist as they walked into the house. “Did your King Alistair enjoy himself today?”

“Hugely. Apparently kings don’t get to do a lot of fighting. He was very impressed with you, invited us both to his wedding.”

“In Ferelden? That cold and miserable country that I am told smells of dog?”

“Hey!” She poked him in the side, and he chuckled. “I’ll have you know it’s only cold and miserable eight months out of the year.”

“Oh, yes, that is very reassuring.”

Evelyn laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder, and they went into her room and closed the door.


	38. Poor Thing

“All I’m asking you to do is listen, Hawke.”

“Varric, your judgment in this case isn’t the best. If it were anyone but Merrill …”

The statement hit uncomfortably close to home, so he leaped to deny it. “I don’t get caught up in all that nonsense. Blood magic, templars, mages … the whole argument gives me a headache.”

Hawke looked at him skeptically, but then relented, as he’d known she would. “Fine. Let’s go see her.”

They didn’t talk as they ambled through Lowtown toward the alienage. Varric cast glances up at his friend, but for once he couldn’t think of anything to say. 

Merrill was waiting for them inside her home, pacing up and down and wringing her hands. “Oh, Varric, you came! And Hawke, thank you!”

“Don’t thank me yet, Merrill. I’m still waiting to hear why it’s so important that we go to Sundermount. Something about your mirror?”

The elf cast a despairing glance at the elaborate structure in the corner of her bedroom. “It won’t do anything! It doesn’t even reflect. A mirror is supposed to reflect, at least, even if it won’t help me unlock my people’s secrets.”

“I don’t see how I can help with that,” Hawke said. “I’m not a mirror-maker.”

“No, of course not. I know how to fix it. You see, the demon that helped me cleanse the first shard I found is trapped, held in a cave above Sundermount. I need to go there, to get the answers straight from the demon’s mouth.” Merrill squared her shoulders, facing Hawke steadfastly.

“Oh, yes,” said Hawke. “Because you can certainly trust whatever a demon says. ‘Why, of course, Merrill, let me just help you with that mirror. Oh, me? I don’t want anything … other than your soul and your body, that is. You won’t mind giving those up, will you?’”

Merrill frowned at the sarcasm. “You sound like Fenris.”

Hawke smiled. “Fenris wouldn’t have come here in the first place, and if he had, he would have killed you the second you stopped speaking, just to prevent you from doing something so foolish and dangerous. Merrill, you’re a powerful mage. If you turn abomination, a lot of people could be hurt.”

“I know. That’s why I need you to come with me. If I— If I fail, I need you to kill me.”

Varric couldn’t restrain the cry that came to his lips. “Daisy, no!”

She looked at him with affection. “Dear Varric. Now you see why I needed Hawke. She can do it, if it needs to be done.”

“Is there no way to talk you out of this?” Hawke asked.

Merrill shook her head. “I have to do this for my people. Before we lose our history altogether.”

Hawke looked from the stubborn elf to the dwarf and back before sighing. “Very well, Merrill. Meet me at the gates tomorrow morning.” Outside, in the alienage, she turned to Varric. “We’re bringing Anders with us. He’s our resident expert on abominations, after all.”

“Not bringing Broody?”

“And put up with his sulking all the way to Sundermount and back? No, thank you.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Varric met them at the gates the next morning: Blondie, glowering as darkly as ever the broody elf could have; Daisy, nervous but determined; Hawke, sad and resigned; and the Rivaini, looking as relaxed and ready for anything as ever, but Varric could see the tension in her.

“Thought I’d come along for the day, see if we can’t keep this sweet little kitten out of trouble,” Isabela said.

“If we’re going to keep her out of trouble, we should keep her in Kirkwall,” Anders snapped.

There was no good response for that, so they set out. Varric couldn’t even muster up enough enthusiasm for a good Templar joke, not that Blondie seemed receptive to one today. 

They were nearing the base of the mountain, the sounds of Master Ilen in his workshop growing louder as they approached, when Anders pulled Merrill to a stop. He glowered down at her. “This is crazy, you know that, right?”

To Varric’s surprise, Merrill nodded, calmly. “I know. But I have no other choice. This is the only way.”

“No choice? You always have a choice! Go back home, destroy that mirror, stop messing about with demons!”

“Yes, of course, Anders. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll tell you what, I’ll tear apart the last piece of my people’s history as soon as you give up your dreams of setting free all the mages of Thedas!” She ripped her arm out of his grasp, turning to march toward the Dalish camp.

“Nice try,” Isabela said, patting him on the arm. “There’s nothing like a bit of hypocrisy to send someone straight into the arms of trouble.”

The mage grumbled under his breath, but he followed the pirate. As they approached the Dalish encampment, Varric looked around, wondering why the place always made him so uneasy. Other than it being outside and the Dalish being so consistently hostile to all of them, of course. 

Merrill was searching for Marethari, poking her nose into all the landships and being rudely turned away. Varric always bristled at the way the rest of the clan treated Merrill. To avoid seeing it he wandered the other direction, his keen eyes observing the camp. It was as neat as always, everything perfectly ordered. Elves moved about, chatting with one another. But they never touched each other, he noticed, or displayed any affection.

It was then that it hit him, what set this encampment apart—this clan had been outside Kirkwall for the best part of ten years, and there were no children. None. Not a single elf of the clan was under the age of thirty. A chill worked its way through him. This was a dying clan; it had no future, no hope. 

He was relieved when Hawke called to him. “Marethari isn’t here,” she said. “Just as well. She and Merrill would just have gotten into an argument anyway. Merrill says we’re going to head on up the mountain now.”

“Hawke …” But Varric wasn’t sure what to ask. If his friend would tackle Merrill and tie her up to keep her from going through with this, maybe, but he knew both women well enough to know that wouldn’t happen. He just couldn’t imagine coming back down that path knowing that somewhere up on that Maker-forsaken mountain they’d lost the sweetest flower in Thedas.

“Let’s get this over with, Varric.” Hawke cast him a sympathetic glance, and then followed Merrill, Anders, and Isabela, who were already on their way up the mountain. 

He put on as much speed as he could, cursing the fact that his legs were so much shorter than those of the others, and eventually caught up to Merrill, huffing and puffing. Once he had his breathing under control, he made his final attempt to end this madness. “Daisy. Think about this for a minute.”

“I have thought about it, Varric. For years, not just minutes.” She tried to smile, for him, but the attempt was a dismal failure, her green eyes filled with fear and resignation.

“It seems very likely to end badly.”

“Look on the bright side,” she said. “Think of all the stories you’ll be able to tell later.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” he said gloomily, “I can do without telling anyone that we murdered you on some mountain.”

“I know you could make it sound better than that, Varric.”

“No. I couldn’t.”

She didn’t say anything else, turning her face up toward the summit and saving her breath for the climb. 

The cave stood open in front of them, its darkness positively menacing. Varric felt sick to his stomach, and only part of it was from the exercise. 

“Well,” said Merrill. “I suppose this is it.”

“It doesn’t have to be, Kitten. Let’s turn around now, you can find some dusty old library and read about mirrors. I’ll steal you any kind of mirror you want,” Isabela said.

“It wouldn’t be the same.” Merrill’s eyes were far away now, her soul transported to someplace where she was the savior of her people, and Varric felt the full weight of how much she cared about this. It was a good thing his heart still belonged to Bianca, he told himself, because otherwise knowing he came in second—or worse—to a bunch of dead elves would have been downright depressing.

Merrill stepped inside the cave, Hawke and Anders right behind her. Varric and Isabela looked at each other helplessly, but they followed. They couldn’t have done anything else.

A huge, hideous statue stood in the center of the cave, grimacing down at all of them. “Whatever he had for breakfast doesn’t look like it sat well,” Varric said. Hawke cast him a quick grin, but no one else was listening. They were all watching Merrill as she stopped in front of the statue, holding a little knife. She stabbed herself in the hand, not even flinching, and flung the blood at the statue. Varric held his breath, as did the others, but nothing happened.

Merrill poked at the statue, frowning. She smeared some of the blood over its lips.

“Something wrong?” Hawke moved to stand next to the elf.

“It’s … it’s like it’s empty. I don’t understand. I can’t feel it here—it should be here!”

“Where could it have gone?” Isabela asked, looking apprehensively around the cave.

“Nowhere. It was sealed. It would have required powerful magic to remove it.” 

“It did.”

At the new voice, they all turned. Keeper Marethari, looking much older than the last time Varric had seen her, came forward from the dark depths of the cave. She was shaking, tremors moving through her body.

“Keeper!” Merrill moved toward the old woman. “Keeper, what have you done?”

Marethari’s face softened as she looked at the younger elf. “What needed to be done, da’len. The demon’s plan was always for you to complete the mirror, to escape into our world through it. You would have been its first victim. I could not allow that to happen.” She took a deep breath, her hands clenching in front of her, the knuckles white with strain.

“She’s containing it, but just barely,” Anders said. “I’ve never seen such power.”

“I could not fight the demon, not without making it stronger, so I—“ She cried out in pain, wincing. “I took it inside me. If you kill me, it dies, too.”

“No!” Merrill was fighting tears. “No, Keeper, I can’t.”

“You must.” Marethari fell to her knees, panting with the strain. “You must kill me, da’len. You must!” She fell to the ground, her body lifting and twisting in agony, and soon where the old woman had been stood the hulking purple form of a pride demon.

Anders wasted no time, his staff swirling in the air and calling down winds and the freezing blasts of a blizzard. Varric pulled Bianca, cocking and releasing the first quarrel with practiced precision. Isabela disappeared into the shadows, reappearing behind the demon with her daggers out, looking for vulnerable places in the flesh. Hawke’s blade flashed in the dim light as she sank it deep into the demon’s thigh.

Merrill hadn’t moved yet. She stood in front of the demon, her lips moving soundlessly as tears slid down her cheeks.

The demon laughed, a deep, dark sound that shook the cave, and reached out a hand for her, whether to sweep her aside or gather her up Varric couldn’t tell.

“No.” Merrill stood her ground, her staff hitting the floor with a resounding clap. The demon’s hand turned to stone, weighing its entire arm down. “No.” Merrill repeated, her staff hitting the ground again, and the demon staggered back, the blast from Merrill’s mind hitting it with the force of an avalanche. It staggered, disoriented and unable to defend itself from the attacks of the other fighters. “NO!” The staff pounded the ground one more time and lightning split the sky above them, thunder roaring so loudly Varric couldn’t hear Bianca’s voice. A lightning bolt speared through the demon’s skull, sending it to its knees.

And then the transformation reversed itself. Varric noted uneasily that there was far less agony than before. Marethari knelt there, her white hair drenched in sweat and her face an unpleasant shade of grey.

“Keeper!” Merrill knelt next to the old woman. “Oh, Keeper …”

Marethari lifted her face to Merrill’s. “You’ve done it, da’len. You are … so much stronger … than I imagined …”

“Is that it? Is it over?” Hawke asked.

Varric didn’t think so, and a glance at Anders’s face, taut with tension, confirmed his fears. The mage stood, staff at the ready, and Varric knew it wasn’t going to be this easy.

“I thought she said she had to die,” Isabela said, casting a worried glance at Merrill. The elf pulled Marethari close.

“I’m sorry, Keeper.” And the little dagger she carried found a home between two of Marathari’s ribs. The Keeper, or what had once been the Keeper, screamed, writhing on the ground. There was a sound like a thunderclap, a sharp smell not unlike lyrium, and the body stopped moving.

Merrill rocked back and forth, sharp, keening cries coming from her mouth. “Why? Why couldn’t you have trusted me to know what I was doing? Why did you have to think you knew so much better?”

“She did know better,” Anders said. “I have never seen such a noble sacrifice. The world is a poorer place today because you live—and she doesn’t.” He stalked out of the cave.

“I’ve spent years studying,” Merrill whispered. “I knew what to do. Why couldn’t she have trusted me?”

“She wanted to protect you,” Hawke said. “She loved you.”

“She never saw me as anything but a child.”

There seemed to be nothing to say to that. Varric, Hawke, and Isabela stood, wordless and uncomfortable, while Merrill straightened Marethari’s body, closing the old woman’s eyes for the last time. She got to her feet. “Come,” she said. “We’ll need to tell the others what happened. They’ll need to come take care of her.” Her voice quavered, but she held herself together. If she broke down, it wouldn’t be in front of the clan.

They followed her out of the cave and down the mountain, no one speaking. Anders walked ahead of the rest, practically shouting his disapproval with the stiff set of his shoulders and the angry precision of his steps.

At the base of the mountain, they found the clan gathered. One of them, a particularly bristly sort Varric remembered from other visits, stepped forward, folding his arms. “Hold it right there, shems. We want to know what you’ve done with the Keeper.”

“Oh, Fenarel,” Merrill said. “The Keeper—“

“Look!” shouted another of the elves, stepping forward and pointing to the front of Merrill’s armor. “She’s covered in blood!”

“Where is the Keeper?” the first one shouted.

“She’s dead!” Merrill’s voice was thick with tears. 

“You killed her?”

“No!”

Hawke stepped forward, shielding Merrill. “Marethari was possessed. There was no other choice.”

“It’s her fault, that … thing. She never belonged with us.”

“She’s a disgrace to the elvhen!”

“Stop!” Hawke looked around her in disbelief as the elves moved in closer. And then, out of nowhere, an arrow embedded itself in Hawke’s upper arm. She stared at it in shock. “Wait, what are you doing?” Her blue eyes were huge in her face as she looked around at the elves. “We don’t want to fight you!”

“Good,” said the pugnacious elf in front as he drew his weapons. “Then you can all die for your monster.”

The blue light of Anders’s healing glowed briefly around the arrow in Hawke’s arm, and it fell to the ground. Hawke barely glanced at it, still trying to convince the elves to stand aside, but it was too late. Men and women, archers and warriors, cooks and tailors and even old Master Ilen were armed and attacking. Merrill’s staff was moving, flashes of white light stabbing through the air, crackling as they hit her former clanmates. Isabela threw herself out of the path of an oncoming sword, rolling across the ground to come up behind an archer and stab the elf in the back. Varric pulled Bianca and Anders drew his staff.

Hawke had her sword out. She automatically parried a sword thrust from the angry elf, whirling to slash at Master Ilen, who had come up behind her. The old man grasped her sword with hands grown tough from years of hard work, pulling Hawke off balance enough to land a dagger thrust to her ribs.

“Hawke!” The light from Merrill’s staff darkened to a thick, dense purple that struck Master Ilen in the chest, sending him flying backward across the ground. Isabela made short work of him while he was down.

Several of the elves were advancing on Anders, but he managed to shoot a cool healing stream of light at Hawke. She was using her blade awkwardly now, though—the blow had weakened her, despite the healing. 

Merrill raised her staff to the sky, calling out words in elvhen, and clouds rolled in, thunder rumbling above them and lightning crackling down, fat, heavy raindrops splattering on Varric’s face. The lightning moved like a living creature, electrifying elf after elf. They jerked and twisted, crying out in pain, many of them cursing Merrill with their last breath. Her face was set, her body strong and powerful as she cast. She seemed not to hear them, and if she did hear, didn’t care.

Hawke had her back against the mountain, parrying the blows aimed at her but not attacking, her side red with blood. Isabela was covered in mud, breathing hard. Anders dodged the elves’ attacks, but they kept him moving too fast to cast more than small spells. Varric seemed to be largely ignored, despite Bianca’s deadly song that struck through the elves’ armor as though it was so much butter. Maybe they thought dwarves were insignificant creatures—he’d run into that attitude before. Merrill, hidden in the center of the tempest, was impossible to reach. Every one of the Dalish who tried to get through fell.

The angry elf who had started it all was still standing, beating at the edges of the storm, his blows weakening. “Fenarel!” Merrill’s voice was large and terrible, coming as it did from the center of the storm. “She was your Keeper, but you were her clan. You were the lead hunter. You should have saved them all, taken them away from here years ago. You doomed the clan by your inaction, as much as Marethari doomed it by her twisted concern for me, and now it will die because you let it. Think of that as you go to meet the Creators.”

A bolt of lightning curled around Fenarel’s waist, dragging him off of his feet. He screamed as the lightning twisted around him, until nothing was to be seen of his body but pure white light.

And then it was over. The storm ceased, the clouds rolling back. Isabela wiped herself off as best she could. Anders rushed to Hawke’s side, his fingers probing the gash the dagger had made. She held his shoulder, wincing and then sighing in relief as the healing magic did its work. Varric ran to Merrill, who had fallen to her knees, spent from the tremendous power she had used.

“Daisy.”

“Varric, I never wanted this.” The words were spoken so softly he wasn’t sure he’d heard them.

“They didn’t exactly invite you to a tea party.” He winced at the flippancy of his own words, but Merrill looked up and smiled.

“Take me home.”

“Kirkwall?”

She nodded, her eyes closing and her head drooping. He reached out, his hand closing around her arm, which was slender and delicate beneath his thick fingers, and helped her up.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
It was a subdued and bedraggled party that made its way back to Kirkwall. Anders fumed, Merrill staggered along leaning on Varric’s shoulder, her eyes glazed with weariness and shock. Isabela stuck close to Hawke, who walked with tears rolling silently down her face.

By the time they reached the gates it was nearly dark. A familiar figure stood talking with the guard on duty. Fenris’s lyrium markings were visible in the twilight, a faint white glow all about him. As he caught sight of them, he turned, hurrying toward Hawke.

She gave a wordless cry and threw herself into the elf’s arms. “Fenris, the Dalish—“ 

He pulled her against him, cradling her with automatic tenderness, looking to the others for explanation. Isabela gave it to him in just a few words.

Hawke lifted her head, looking at her lover. “Why did they make me do that? I didn’t want to kill them. A whole clan of elves!”

Merrill stood still and silent, her face set as if in stone.

“It’s this monster who should be weeping. It was her fault.” Anders pushed by Merrill. “You should be ashamed that you still live.”

Varric bristled at that, but there was no talking to Blondie these days. The broody elf, to his credit, didn’t even glance at Merrill. His focus was entirely on Hawke. Sliding his arm around her waist, he led her toward Hightown.

“How are you holding up, Kitten?”

“I’m fine, Isabela. You’d think I wouldn’t be—my whole clan. But …” She shook her head. “I’m fine.” 

Varric didn’t believe a word of it. He walked with Merrill all the way to her home in the Alienage. At the door, she turned to look at him. “Varric. You’ve been … very sweet. But I think I need to be alone.”

He looked at her doubtfully, and she laughed, a sound far too brittle and harsh to be his Daisy. 

“The only damage I’m going to do is to that cursed mirror,” she said. “Without that, Marethari would have taken the clan and moved on, instead of letting them sit here and stagnate. I think she did it for me—she put protecting me above the needs of the rest of the clan. I always wondered what happened to the halla,” she added thoughtfully. “I’m thinking Marethari got rid of them to keep the clan here. Love can go too far, Varric. Remember that.”

He was left without any fancy comebacks; nary a joke was to be had. He shook his head.

“Good-night, Varric.” Merrill went inside and closed her door. He stood, listening, for a long time, until he heard the crash of breaking glass and the sound of her sobs inside the little house, the keening wails of a broken heart. With everything that was in him, he wanted to go to her … but he knew that if he did, she would pretend to be fine in order to avoid distressing him. She was a lot like Hawke that way. Hawke had found someone she could cry to, but much as Varric would have liked to be that man for Daisy, he knew he wasn’t.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Several days later, Varric walked into the alienage in response to a note from Merrill. He saw her as soon as he turned the corner, sitting on the ground with her knees drawn up to her chest. She was listening with absorption to the crazy old woman who had talked Blondie into helping the Templar and his girl. 

A faint green light shimmered around the old woman, but no one in the alienage seemed to notice. They were experts at that, going about their business and ignoring everything that might get them in trouble if they knew about it. 

As Varric neared them, the old woman leaned forward, grasping Merrill by the arm. “Let it go,” she said. “Turn toward the light, not inside.”

“I will. Thank you.” Merrill smiled up at the old woman, something remarkably close to her old smile.

The old woman squeezed her arm and scurried off. Merrill looked over her shoulder. “Varric! Thank you for coming.” She got smoothly to her feet. “Sometimes I think Anders has the right idea. Do you know what they did to her? That poor thing; she had a family, a husband and a child, but her husband was taken away into the Gallows, and when she wouldn’t let the man who took him … touch her, they Harrowed her.”

“What’s so bad about that?”

“They didn’t finish. But then this spirit of Anguish found her in the Fade, and they merged together, and now they exist half in and half out of the Fade.”

“No wonder she’s crazy. I’m surprised she can function at all.”

“Anguish seems to take care of her.” Merrill looked in the direction the old woman had gone, her eyes misty. “Imagine feeling anything that strongly.”

“You do, don’t you, Daisy? Your mirror, and your cl—history?”

“Not anymore. The mirror is gone, and my clan … well, I never really had them, did I?”

Varric was almost afraid to ask, but he had to know. “What are you going to do now?”

“That’s why I asked you to come here today. Will you help me?”

“Do what? Redecorate?”

“Go back to Ferelden.”

Varric knew he should have been surprised, but he wasn’t. It felt as though they had already had this conversation, as though its ending was inevitable. Somehow he had known this couldn’t last. “What will you do in Ferelden?”

“I think I’ve spent too much time focusing on my people’s past, and not enough time on their future. King Alistair has done a great deal for the elves in Ferelden. I’d like to help him clean up the alienages, maybe teach the children of the city elves about the Dalish. My people shouldn’t be fighting amongst each other—we should share our history, and our future.”

He couldn’t have argued with that, even if he’d wanted to. “That sounds like you, Daisy.”

“Will you help me?”

“Of course.”  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The next ship left for Ferelden four days later. It was sooner than Varric would have liked, but once Merrill had made up her mind, she wanted to go as soon as she could. The group loaded her down with gifts for herself and for the elves she was going to assist. Hawke had given her a letter to King Alistair himself. He had gone back to Ferelden about ten days before Merrill’s ship sailed, so he should be there when she arrived. 

There had been a rather subdued party for her at the Hanged Man the night before, and everyone had said good-bye to her then.

Varric and Hawke were there at the docks bright and early to see her off.

“Merrill, are you sure you won’t reconsider? There’s so much you can do in the alienage here,” Hawke said.

For the first time since that dreadful day on Sundermount, Varric saw Merrill’s control threaten to break. “We should never have come to Kirkwall in the first place. This city may represent a new life for some, but it was only death and sorrow for my clan.” She shook her head decidedly. “Ferelden is where I belong. Besides, I miss the mud.”

Hawke smiled. “Sometimes I do, too.” 

“Then come visit. There’s always room for you, anywhere that I am.” Merrill hugged Hawke impulsively. “And take care of Fenris. He’s much less cross when he’s with you.”

“Good-bye, Merrill.” Hawke withdrew, leaving Varric alone with her.

“Daisy, I—“ But the words wouldn’t come.

“I know, Varric. And I wish … But I can’t. And I don’t think you can, either.”

“You’ll write?”

“My letters won’t be as interesting as yours. Write me all the stories I’ll be missing, and I’ll close my eyes and pretend I can hear your voice.”

He nodded. “Merrill, about Bianca …”

“Don’t tell me now,” she said. She placed her fingers over his lips, soft and cool and smelling of some kind of fresh herb. “Some day, when I’m ready to hear, I’ll ask.”

“I’ll be counting the days, Daisy.” He stepped back, watching as she turned and walked up the gangplank. She waved a handkerchief until the ship had pulled away and she was nothing but a speck at its rail.

Varric didn’t have to turn to know that Hawke had rejoined him. “That’s that, I guess.”

“She’ll be back. Or maybe you can go to her. You’re always saying how much you hate Kirkwall.”

“Yeah, well, I lie a lot.”

“No!”

He grinned. How well she understood him. “I suppose you have big plans with your broody elf all day.”

“Not a one. I’m all yours. Got any cookies?”

“I’ve been saving just the ones. You’ll love them. Chocolate on the outside, but with this rich, creamy filling. I’m told you can break them apart and lick the filling right off.”

“Sounds truly debauched. Lead on.”


	39. Family

“I tell you, it was a right scandal.” The ever-present rolling pin flew over the dough as Mistress Blodgett chattered happily away.

Perched on a stool near the counter, Fenris attempted to follow the conversation, but she was going on at such a rate it was hard to tell what she was saying. When she paused for breath, he put in, “I have wondered why you do not move out of Lowtown.”

The rolling pin froze, Mistress Blodgett staring at him from under her mop of curls. “What do you mean?”

“Your shop is so prosperous, you could have a fine establishment in Hightown, draw in a new clientele.” 

She shook her head decisively. “No, this suits me just fine.” But he’d seen a hint of fear cross her face, and he wondered about it. What could she be afraid of, in moving?

“Serah Drury’s barbering establishment appears to be doing well, also. Perhaps both businesses could change locations.”

“Nice of you to think of us.” The tone made it clear the conversation was closed. 

Fenris finished his meal, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “Thank you for breakfast, Mistress.”

“Anytime, my dear.” She looked at him fondly. “Nice to see you so happy; Serah Hawke’s been good for you.”

“Er, thank you.” He ducked his head, uncomfortable discussing his private life—uncomfortable, in point of fact, with the idea of acknowledging his happiness. That seemed dangerous, somehow, as though to admit it would be to dare the fates, if such things existed, to take it away from him.

“You’ve been very special to me, duckie. If anything should ever …” She fumbled audibly for the word. “… happen, I want you to know that.”

“What could happen?” 

“Oh, you know.” She waved her hand in the air, looking as though she wished she hadn’t brought it up. “Hit by a cart in the street, choke on a piece of carrot …”

“I see.” He didn’t think that was what she had meant. “I … feel the same.” His cheeks heated up at the admission. “You have been most kind.” 

“From you, duckie, that’s as good as a hug.” She beamed at him before returning to her pie crust. Fenris ducked quickly out of the shop, nearly running over a man passing by. He recognized the man as a Hanged Man regular. His usually neatly trimmed side whiskers looked a bit overgrown today, Fenris noticed, glad once more that elves didn’t need to shave. They exchanged polite nods before the man turned, heading up the wooden stairs on the outside of the building to Serah Drury’s barber shop.

“There you are!” 

He turned at the familiar voice, fighting the smile that her presence always seemed to tease out of him these days. “Was I that difficult to find?”

“No, my love, you’re quite predictable. If I hadn’t found you here, I’d have looked for you at my house.” She smiled sunnily at him, and he willed himself not to blush at the casual endearment, avoiding the avid eyes of the dwarf. Varric’s affection for Hawke had thus far kept any suspiciously named elven and human characters from appearing in those dreadful broadsheets he wrote, unlike Donnic and Aveline, whose identities would have been apparent to any small child whose parents were lax enough to let them see that sort of smut, but Fenris saw no point in giving the dwarf any extra ammunition. 

“It’s good she found you now; I was hoping to do something more exciting than take an extended tour of Kirkwall while hunting you down, my friend,” Sebastian said.

“I told you already, Sebastian, not much going on today,” Hawke said. “Next stop, I thought I’d go visit my uncle Gamlen.” Varric groaned, and Hawke laughed. “You don’t have to come along, you know.”

Varric shrugged. “What else is there to do? But I miss the excitement-loving Hawke we’ve all come to know. Domestic bliss has made you downright boring.” His eyes twinkled as he said it, but Fenris could hear the undercurrent. Varric thirsted for excitement to take away the sting of Merrill’s departure. The dwarf pretended it didn’t bother him, but the rest of them knew better.

“I admit, I was looking forward to a task that would take my mind off the unrest,” Sebastian said. “These mages don’t realize what trouble they are attracting; if the Divine truly leads an Exalted March on Kirkwall … none of us will survive unscathed.” He spoke with less circumspection than he might have if Anders or … just Anders now, actually, was in the party. Not that Merrill had ever taken much part in those arguments. Her obsession had been with the Dalish, not the mages.

“Do you think that’s coming?” Varric asked.

“Hawke, you heard Sister Nightingale. Did it sound like the Divine is going to let all this turmoil go?”

She sighed. “No. No, it didn’t. Have you had any luck convincing Elthina to leave the city?”

“None.” Sebastian looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid this will have to be the last day I spend at your side, Hawke, until all this is resolved. Elthina is too stubborn to protect herself—she needs me. And you have ample assistance.”

“Understood, Sebastian. We’ll miss you.” They were in the slums of Lowtown now, closing in on the tenement where Gamlen lived. Hawke sighed, looking up at the building. “I keep trying to tell him he doesn’t have to live here anymore, that he’s welcome in my home, but he won’t budge.” She shot an irritated glance at Fenris, who pretended not to see it. “It seems stubborn men are my destiny.”

Fenris followed her up the steps, absorbing the shot in silence. He knew it still bothered her that he wouldn’t give up his mansion, even though she stayed over willingly enough on the occasions he asked for her to do so. Her point was logical, as were Aveline’s continued warnings about the Seneschal’s growing interest in the house, but somehow Fenris wasn’t prepared to take the final step. He was committed to Hawke … but his claim to independence was so new he was not sure what it meant to him yet, and didn’t want to give it up until he was certain he had learned all it had to impart.

Hawke knocked on the door before pushing it open, peering inside. “Uncle Gamlen?”

“Come in, girl!”

“How are you, uncle?” Hawke asked after the hesitant pecking on the cheek had been exchanged.

“Well enough.” Gamlen hesitated for a moment, then held out a folded paper. “I wondered if you would have a look at this.”

Hawke scanned the words. “The ‘Gem of Keroshek’? What’s that?”

“A foolish obsession. It consumed most of my youth—cost me everything I ever had. Cost me Mara,” he added in a near-whisper.

“Mara?”

“Never you mind,” he snapped. “Point is, that was a long time ago. Why is someone trying to tempt me with it now? What do they want?”

“You want me to find out for you?”

“Would you? I’d go myself, but I’m not the man I used to be.”

“No, but you’re getting there.” Hawke smiled at him. “I’ll see if I can find out what this is about.”

“Thank you, girl. I have to tell you, I never had much use for Malcolm, didn’t see the point in your mother running off with him. But you—you’re a credit to the Amells, and the Hawkes.” He turned away, coughing. “Off you go, don’t you have things to do?”

“Of course. See you later.” Evelyn pushed the others out ahead of her. “This says to meet the contact in Darktown. What contact, I wonder? Do you think they’ll be wearing a dark hat and tinted glasses?”

“A treasure hunt,” Varric said, chuckling. “It’s always something new with you, Hawke.”

Fenris and Sebastian let the others go on ahead. “So you are not going back to Starkhaven to reclaim your throne?”

“My place is here, for now.”

“And in time, when the Grand Cleric’s safety is more assured?”

Sebastian smiled. “I have faith in the Maker, my friend. He will put the path before me—I have but to walk it. You are beginning to walk the Maker’s path, are you not?”

Fenris cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I am not certain what you mean.”

“I saw you last week. You appeared to be praying.”

“I was … delivering a package. I paused to rest.”

“With your eyes closed?”

For a moment, Fenris couldn’t think of a response to that, but then it came to him. “I was resting those, too.” He felt quite pleased with himself.

“Have it your way,” Sebastian said, grinning. “The Maker knows the difference, and that’s what is important.”

Hawke and Varric were approaching a group of armed men who stood around an ale stall that reeked of unsavory ingredients. Fenris wrinkled his nose. People actually drank something that smelled that way?

“Which of you is the leader?” 

A burly blond man stepped forward. “You found ‘im.”

She held out the note. “We’re here for the gem.”

“Funny thing,” the blond man said. “So are we.” He grinned, stepping closer to Hawke, clearly hoping to intimidate her with his size. “You want to tell us where it is?”

“Hardly. And may I suggest you step back?”

“Who’s going to make me, missy? You and your toy sword?”

Fenris smothered a smile. These types of altercations were always entertaining.

“Care to try your luck?” Hawke asked, her eyes sparkling. “You and me. I win, you tell me what you know about where the gem is; you win, I tell you what I know.”

“Oh, aye. This’ll be fun.”

The two opponents squared off, the big man holding his two blades loosely, confident he could take the woman despite her far superior armor. When the ale booth’s owner called time, Hawke was in motion instantly. She stomped on the man’s foot, kneed him in the stomach, and had him on his knees with her great blade poised at the back of his neck before he could even get a proper grip on his daggers.

“Now,” she said calmly, “what do you know about the gem of Keroshek?”

“N-nothin’. We was just sent to tell ya to go to Smetty’s Fish Guttery, look for a note in one o’ the crates.”

“Which crate?”

“Th-The one marked ‘herring’.”

“Why didn’t you look yourself, genius?” Varric asked.

The blond man scowled. “We tried. Couldn’t find nothin’. And there was fish in there.”

“You mean we have to dig through fish to get this thing?” Varric asked. “Hawke, you know how I love treasure, but I think I’d rather get locked in the Deep Roads again.”

“H-Hawke?” The big blond man looked up in horror. “You’re the Champion of Kirkwall?”

“The same.” She removed her blade from the back of the man’s neck. “And Kirkwall has no need of any more men like you. I suggest Val Royeaux. I hear it’s beautiful this time of year.”

“R-right.” He got hastily to his feet. By the time he and his men had walked ten paces, he was already bragging about how he had personally dueled with the Champion of Kirkwall.

“All right,” Hawke said. “To the docks.” 

“Should we not speak with Gamlen first?” Fenris asked. “Perhaps he will want to perform this task himself.”

“Gamlen in a dark warehouse on the docks? I think those days are past.” Hawke spoke somewhat wistfully; Fenris knew it saddened her to think of her uncle getting older, since he was the last blood family she had left, outside of Bethany. But a sister in the Gallows where she couldn’t be approached without Templar supervision wasn’t much of a sister—Evelyn missed the closeness she had once shared with Bethany, but Fenris got the impression the two women had little to say on their rare visits with each other. Hawke didn’t like to speak about it.

Smetty’s Fish Guttery was a derelict building at the end of a pier. As they approached it, Sebastian frowned. “Hawke, this looks as though it’s about to fall into the harbor. Are we sure this is where we want to go?”

“Come on, Sebastian, this is fun.” Hawke grinned at him before ducking inside the building.

“Fun?” 

“You did say you would follow the path the Maker set before you,” Fenris reminded the archer before following Hawke.

“I don’t remember conflating Hawke with the Maker,” Sebastian muttered under his breath, bringing up the rear.

The warehouse was dark and chilly and rank with the smell of old fish. “Faugh!” Fenris spat. “Fish, fish, and more fish. Let us finish this and leave this place!”

Hawke was poking around in corners, inspecting crates stacked haphazardly. Varric climbed a ramp to an upper level, walking carefully on the creaking boards. “Up here, Hawke!” he called out. He approached a large red crate with careful steps. “On second thought, don’t come up here—it’s a trap,” he called out, dropping to his knees, his fingers dexterously finding the wires and snipping them.

“Tell us where the gem is, and no one gets hurt.” The voice came from behind a stack of crates.

“You’ll be the one getting hurt if you don’t come out.” Sebastian’s voice, at its smoothest and most deadly. He stood on a ledge above the crates, an arrow nocked and pointed at the men hidden there.

A man in cheap splintmail stood up, and several others sheepishly came out from behind other crates and boxes, all of them with their hands in the air. Fenris and Hawke prodded them into the middle of the room with their swords.

“All we wanted was the gem,” whined the first man.

“Where is it, then?”

“You mean, you don’t know? She said you would know.”

“Who’s ‘she’?” Hawke asked. “We’re here to find the gem, not give it away.”

“Girl. She paid us to wait here for you, bring you to a cavern outside town. Said it was about some big gem.”

“And you just assumed we were bringing her the gem and thought you’d take it for yourself? Too bad for you. I think you can wait here for the next city guard patrol,” Hawke said. 

“You think they come check out a place like this, Hawke?” Varric asked while they tied the men up.

“Well, if I was this lot, I would certainly hope so. It’s going to get mighty cold and fishy around here by nightfall.” Hawke gave a yank on the last knot and grinned at the leader, who spat at her feet.

Once the thieves were taken care of, Hawke and the others stepped out onto the dock. Sebastian gave a sigh of relief once they were back on solid ground again.

Hawke squinted up at the sun. “I think there’s time to head for this cavern.”

“Why are you so eager to discover this jewel?” Fenris asked as they walked toward the city gates. “You have never seemed motivated by treasure before.”

“I don’t know,” Evelyn said. “Maybe it’s because it’s something I can do for my uncle; maybe it’s because a search for treasure seems so light and relaxed after all the other things we do.” She looked down at her feet, swallowing hard, and Fenris reached out to take her hand. He knew she had nightmares about what she had been forced to do to the Dalish clan several weeks ago.

“I understand.” 

“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand and let it go.

The caverns in question were quiet in the late afternoon sunlight, but it was clear which one had been used most recently. Varric went first, scouting the ground for hints.

“Stop right there.” A voice spoke out of the darkness behind him and the cold edge of a dagger was laid across the side of his neck. “Come on in,” the voice called out.

They moved into the cavern, the light of several torches making it easy to see the dark-haired young woman who stood there. She moved her dagger off Varric’s neck with an impatient sigh. “All this, and Gamlen couldn’t even be bothered to show up himself. I should have known he’d send you, cousin.”

“’Cousin’?”

“Didn’t know I existed, did you?” The girl shook her head. “I’m Charade. I sent all those notes, hoping Gamlen would care enough about the gem to come. Apparently not.”

“Was your mother’s name Mara?” Hawke asked.

“Yes, has he talked about her?” 

Hawke shook her head. “Today was the first time I’d ever heard her name. Charade, I’m not sure Gamlen knows you exist. He’s certainly never mentioned you to me.” Hawke was staring at the other girl with a bemused look. They were of an age, but Hawke’s height and proud bearing contrasted sharply with the prettiness and softness of her cousin. At least, in Fenris’s opinion. “Or the gem, for that matter.”

“Mother said the gem was all he ever cared about. She never even told me about him until last year, just before she died.”

“I’m sorry, cousin,” Hawke said.

Whatever Charade might have said in return was cut off when the burly blond man Hawke had bested earlier came out of the darkness.

“Mekel! What are you doing here?” Charade looked alarmed. “I thought you’d left.”

“I bet you did. Wasn’t gonna leave without the gem, you can bet your sweet arse on that.” He slapped Charade on the rump.

“Keep your hands off her,” Hawke warned.

“Or you’ll what, Champion? I got my boys all over this cavern.”

“That’s what the Arishok said,” Varric put in. “And we all know what happened to him.” He pantomimed being stabbed in the gut.

“Come on out, boys!” The blond waved an arm, and a swarm of men came from the shadowy corners. Hawke and Fenris pulled their blades, standing back to back, while Varric and Sebastian melted back toward the cavern walls for a clearer field of fire. 

Charade stabbed her dagger into the blond’s back, yanking her arm out of his grasp as he sank to his knees. She jerked the dagger out and plunged it into his neck, then smoothly drew her bow and sent her first arrow through the throat of a man across the cavern. The sudden defeat of their leader and the obvious competence of the fighters gave the mercenaries pause. At a quick nod from a tall, thin man in the back, they melted back into the shadows, their footsteps echoing as they made their way down a tunnel.

Hawke glanced at Fenris, grinning. “These encounters used to be more of a challenge.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Be careful what you wish for.” 

Hawke turned her cousin. “Will you come back to Kirkwall with us? I think you and Gamlen should talk.”

“About what?” Charade asked bitterly. “He didn’t care enough to come see me.”

“He didn’t care enough to come after the gem,” Hawke corrected. “Maybe it would have been different if you hadn’t been trying to trick him. Besides, drinks at the Hanged Man later. I’m buying.”

“Who can argue with an invitation like that?”

Hawke and her cousin chattered like magpies all the way back to Kirkwall. Fenris watched them with concern. “This … pattern of excited speech seems unusual for Hawke,” he said to Varric, who chortled.

“What you’re seeing here, Broody, is the female animal in their native form. Mostly our women are too sensible to go in for much of this, but it seems this Charade is a bit more … fluffy. Nice work with that bow, though.” The dwarf shrugged. “Good for Hawke to have more family.”

“It is, indeed.” 

Sebastian took his leave at the gates. “Should you have need of me, you will find me at Elthina’s side … but only if the need is dire.”

“Very well, Sebastian. And if you ever need me—“

“I’ll send a message by our devout friend here.” Sebastian smiled at Fenris, who scowled and looked down at the ground. 

Hawke chuckled. “Fair enough.”

The rest of them went on to Lowtown, where Hawke led Charade to Gamlen’s house. The young woman wrinkled up her nose at the sights and smells of the slum. 

“Yes, it is picturesque, isn’t it?” Hawke said. “I’ve tried to convince him to come stay with me, but he’s an independent type.” 

Gamlen came forward from his back room, looking startled. “Who is this?“ 

“Hello, father.”

“What manner of trick is this, now?”

“No trick.” Charade moved closer to him, and Gamlen looked her full in the face.

“You … remind me a bit …”

“Of my mother?”

“She certainly doesn’t take after you, uncle,” Hawke put in, smiling at him.

“Thank the Maker for that,” he said dryly. “Where is your mother?” he said to Charade. 

Hawke took Fenris’s arm. “Our cue to leave,” she whispered.

“Hawke!” Gamlen called after her. Evelyn turned in the doorway and Gamlen cleared his throat. “Er … thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Uncle. Charade, Hanged Man if you like.”

“See you there, cousin.”

They went off to the Hanged Man and got started on the drinks, telling Isabela about their day. 

“Charade, did you say?” The pirate raised an eyebrow. “I knew a Charade once. Worked as a barmaid in Llomerryn. Sweet as pie … on the outside. The inside now …” Isabela grinned. “That was another matter entirely.”

“My cousin, Isabela. Watch your mind.”

“What?” Isabela batted her eyelashes.

Charade came in an hour later, her face turning pink and her eyes widening when she saw Isabela there. She came toward their table.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Isabela drawled, her voice a sultry purr.

“As long as we’re meeting somewhere, how could I complain?” Charade winked at the pirate, and Hawke groaned.

“Isabela, I swear, if you tell me one word of any of the stories going through your mind right now, or if you write them down …”

Charade looked concerned, and Isabela laughed. “Don’t worry, cupcake, Hawke’s bark is much worse than her bite. If she gets too angry, we’ll just get the elf to do that glowy thing he does and she’ll forget anything she was about to say.”

Fenris turned red and Hawke spluttered, and the others burst into uproarious laughter. The rest of the evening went by the same way, and it was late night before Evelyn and Fenris were undressing in her bedroom. Charade had stayed behind at the Hanged Man to become reacquainted with Isabela.

“So,” Fenris said as he turned the covers down, “you found a treasure, but not the one you thought you were searching for.”

“I wonder if she ever had the gem.”

“I do not think it matters.”

“No, probably not. And Gamlen has a daughter he never knew about. That should give him something to look toward, instead of always dwelling on the past.” Evelyn frowned suddenly, looking thoughtful, and climbed into bed. 

Fenris joined her, putting an arm around her while she rested her head on his chest.

“Fenris?”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever given any thought to children?”

The concept took a moment to sink in, but when it did he raised his head sharply off the pillow, looking at her. “Is there something you are trying to inform me of?”

She laughed. “No. Gamlen and Charade made me think of it … but it is a consideration, isn’t it, as often as we do this? We should begin thinking about some kind of … precautions.”

Fenris let his head sink back on the pillow. “I admit, I had not thought of it in quite such a manner before.”

“Neither had I. But I suppose we ought to talk about it, don’t you think?” She was tense against him, and he wished he knew what she was thinking.

“You have a point.” Fenris was startled by the idea; it had never crossed his mind, not even in vague shadow. He stared up at the ceiling, seeing Evelyn in his mind’s eye, cradling a baby. It was an enticing thing to think about, now that she’d brought it up. “It has … possibilities. Someday.”

“But …” She rolled onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows next to him so that she could look at his face. “The child, if we had one, would be human.”

“I have said before that my elven heritage is not important to me, and you have proven by word and deed that it is not important to you. The child’s appearance would not matter to me.”

“And then there’s the other thing. Because of my family heritage, any child we had would have a better than average chance of being a mage.”

“Apparently because of mine, as well.” For once, the thought of his traitor bitch of a sister didn’t fill his mind with white rage.

“Would you … be angry if we had a child who was a mage?”

He could hear in her voice that she wanted a serious answer. He sighed, closing his eyes, trying to picture it. Could he care for a mage child? Would the chance of having one be enough to deter him from the possibility of a child altogether? Fenris was amazed at how a concept he had never considered until two minutes ago had suddenly become a dream he would find painful to give up. “It occurs to me that parents cannot choose their children. We might have a child who was … ill. Or malformed. Or who reached his or her adulthood and chose to go away from us completely. We could have a child who took after Varric and … wrote dreadful stories.” Evelyn giggled. “I suppose that having a child who is a mage is a risk we would have to take. I can promise that if such a thing did happen, I would watch the child carefully, and we would give him, or her, the tools needed to survive and to control their magic. Whether the child would have to be given to the Chantry … is a topic to discuss if it ever appears relevant.” He raised a hand to trace the outline of Evelyn’s jaw, and caught sight of his markings shining in the darkness. He snorted in disgust. “Of course, it might well be a moot point. I know little of the ritual Danarius used, or the effect on my body of the lyrium. It is possible that the markings make me … unable to create life. Would that make a difference to you?” He held his breath, not certain what her answer would be.

“No. Not in the least. If we have a child someday, that would be wonderful, but if we never do … what kind of a place is this to raise a child in, anyway? I want to be with you, no matter what.” She bent, kissing him, and he tasted tears on her lips. Pulling back just slightly, she whispered, “I love you, Fenris.”

The warmth of her great heart wrapped around him. He took her face in his hands. “And I love you, Evelyn.”


	40. Epiphany

Hawke knocked on the door of Anders’s office. The clinic was surprisingly quiet this morning, only a couple of patients in the beds. 

The door opened a crack, one of Anders’s brown eyes visible. “Oh, Hawke, it’s you.” He opened the door the rest of the way. His office was littered with papers scrawled with symbols and words in unfamiliar languages. Even the walls had been written on.

“You sent a message that you wanted to talk to me,” Hawke said. He gestured her in. She walked gingerly, trying not to step on any of the papers. “You know, you could have just come to the house.”

“I … don’t get out much these days.”

That much was obvious. His skin was waxy and white, his stubble even more pronounced than normal, and his once-neat ponytail was a tangled mess. “What’s going on?”

“I need your help. I’m trying something, and I thought you’d want to be part of it.” His eyes met hers briefly and then skittered to the side, and Hawke steeled herself for a request it seemed certain she wouldn’t like.

“What kind of something is this?” She considered cleaning off the extra chair, but she didn’t want to touch any of those papers.

“It’s time to be free of this curse. I’ve … found a potion that can separate Justice and me, but I need you to help me gather the ingredients.”

“I thought you said the merging between you two was irreversible.”

He stood up, his features taking on an unusual animation. “I’ve done some research into the methods of Tevinter magisters, the only ones who have ever tried to unpossess someone without killing them.”

To Hawke, Tevinter magisters meant only one thing: the people who had tortured Fenris. She pushed down the automatic bitterness she had learned from her lover. “And you found this potion?”

“Yes. It’s … dangerous, but in the end, it will be worth whatever it costs.” His eyes were shining, staring into the air above Hawke’s head, seeing visions. The hair rose on the back of her neck at his rapt expression. Maybe it was unfair to him, but she didn’t trust this sudden energy. The only cause he’d ever shown this level of enthusiasm for before was that of freeing mages from Templars, not from the spirits in their heads.

“What will it cost?”

“What? Oh, not that much, really. I just need to track down some sela petrae and some drakestone.”

“Come again?”

“Sela petrae is the active ingredient; it’s made of concentrated manure and urine.” Anders smiled at the face Hawke made. “Yes, it’s not going to be lovely sparkly magic. Drakestone is collected on the walls of the Bone Pit.”

“What’s that, dragon sweat?”

“Actually, dragon excrement.”

“Ugh. And you need me for what?”

“Protection, really. There are lyrium smugglers and mercenaries in the sewers with the sela petrae, and spiders and dragonlings in the Bone Pit.”

“So, it’s just a potion?” Hawke asked. “No ritual, no dark of night, none of that?”

“No. Just mix the potion, and Boom!” He smirked as at a private joke, and went on, “Then Justice and Anders can take our rightful place among free mages.”

“’Our’ rightful place?” The question was unnecessary: that “Boom!” had said it all. He sounded just like Sandal, and Sandal was always talking about real booms, not harmless potions. Anders had truly gone over the edge now, Hawke thought. “Anders …”

“You have to trust me, Hawke. Do you trust me?”

Well, no, she thought. She really didn’t. Never had. “Um, to a point.”

“I wouldn’t ask for this if it wasn’t important, and I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think you were sympathetic to our plight. Mine and Justice’s,” he added hastily.  
He was talking too fast, trying to deflect her questions before she could ask them. Whatever he had planned, it wasn’t good. Quickly Hawke ran through her options. Attempting to take him in would only cause harm, and who knew what he might already have set in motion; she couldn’t risk killing him. At least this way she could keep an eye on him, maybe prevent him from hurting anyone. “All right, Anders. I’ll help you.”

“I knew I could count on you.” A shadow flickered across his face for a moment, then was gone, and he was smiling at her, an over-bright, faraway smile that made her intensely nervous. “Thank you, Hawke.”

“Sure.” She backed out of the office door, leaving the clinic, and wasn’t surprised when a shadow detached itself from the wall outside.

“What did he want?” Fenris asked.

She sighed. “Something that’s not going to be good. I’m helping him gather ingredients for a potion, something he found in a Tevinter book, apparently.” She didn’t miss the way Fenris stiffened at the word. “He says this potion is going to separate him and Justice.”

Fenris made a rude noise of disbelief. 

“What? Don’t the Tevinters have ways to unpossess someone?”

“Certainly they do. After all, they are the ones most likely to become possessed. However, such rituals are a closely guarded secret. It is unlikely that a penniless apostate in Darktown could get his hands on such a thing. Did he tell you what the ingredients are?”

“Drakestone and sela petrae.”

“ _Venhedis_!”

“That bad?”

“Sela petrae is used in the making of explosives. Danarius used to experiment with it, attempting to counter the Qunari’s use of gaatlock.”

“I thought as much.” Evelyn ran a hand over her face. “I wish I knew what he wanted to blow up. Or who.”

“He did not say?”

“He told me it’s for a potion—I could hardly ask him to tell the truth about his target if he wasn’t willing to be honest about his intentions.”

“You did not agree to assist him, did you?”

“Yes, I did.” She saw the flash of the markings flaring in the dim light of Darktown, and grabbed Fenris’s wrist. “Think, Fenris. If I don’t help him, how will I know what he’s up to?”

“If you had killed him years ago, none of this would be necessary.”

“You’re absolutely right. But how was I to know? Hundreds of people are alive in Darktown today because I let Anders live; whatever he’s about to do can’t possibly eclipse all the good he’s done down here.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows in silent disagreement.

“I won’t ask you to come along; Varric and I can handle a sewer crawl and a trip to the Bone Pit, now that the dragon’s dead. But I can’t let him go off and do this on his own, not when I have a chance to keep tabs on him and maybe stop whatever he’s planning.”

“Evelyn, on occasion, you are an idealistic fool.”

It stung, but it wasn’t entirely wrong. They were silent all the way back to Hightown, and for the first night in weeks, slept in separate houses.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Anders knocked at Hawke’s door at sunrise the next morning. It was the first time he had been there in several months, and she was not at all prepared to have him show up quite so early. Orana had to wake Evelyn up, as she had tossed and turned until late the night before, missing Fenris. No disagreement was worth sleeping alone, she decided, dragging herself groggily out of bed.

“Anders, what’s the rush?” she asked, pulling on her gauntlets as she walked into the foyer where he was pacing. “You think someone else wants to scrape urine off the sewer walls?”

“I’m going to need a lot of it,” he said. He was so anxious she could see him bouncing on the balls of his feet. “We’ll need to bring something to carry it in.”

“Didn’t you bring something?”

“I thought you could get something from your gardening equipment.”

“Fine.” Hawke sighed, ringing for Orana. In a few minutes they were ready to set out, Hawke carrying a big dented metal bucket, privately promising herself that she’d give the bucket to Anders as a present rather than asking for it back when they were done.

Varric met them outside the sewers. Hawke opened the hatch and the three of them climbed down the ladder, slippery with substances Hawke didn’t want to contemplate.

“Anders, I assume you’ll know this stuff when you see it?”

“I believe so.”

“Well, be sure, because I’m not coming back down here. Ever again.”

“What she said,” Varric muttered, lifting a foot and shining the torch on it. “This is going to ruin my boots.”

“You could have worn a different pair, you know.”

“Perish the thought! I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Who’s going to see you down here?” Anders asked. He paused, peering at the wall, then shook his head and kept walking.

“Coterie. They have a lyrium smuggling operation in the sewers,” Varric said.

“Since when do you have to look your best for the Coterie?” Hawke asked.

“Makes a better story if you look good while you’re taking out members of Kirkwall’s most powerful underground organization.”

“Funny, I would have thought you could just add embroidery to your fictional clothes while you were adding it to the story itself,” Hawke said, grinning.

“Hawke! I’m surprised at you. That would be lying.” 

“I didn’t think that word was in your vocabulary, Varric.” Anders stopped again, looking closely at a gummy black substance on the wall. “Aha! Got some.” He stepped back, looking at Hawke expectantly.

“Have at it, Anders.”

“I didn’t bring anything to scrape with.”

“Neither did I; couldn’t you have thought of this before we were already down here?”

“I thought you could just use your gauntlets. They’re metal.”

Hawke’s jaw dropped and she stared at him in the flickering torchlight. “Of all the— I never— You— Argh!” She made a face, taking a deep breath to calm herself. “This is your potion, Anders. You want this stuff so bad? You figure out how to get it off the wall. I’m not touching it.”

“But, Hawke—“

“No.”

“Uh, Blondie? You might want to get started,” Varric said. “We’re about to have company.”

Another light was bobbing farther down the passage, and they could hear voices getting louder.

“We’ll have to fight them,” Anders said. “I’m going to need a lot more than what’s here.” He was furiously digging at the wall, and the stench was overpowering as the dried outer layers came off and revealed the yellowish glop underneath.

“Do me a favor, never ever touch anything of mine,” Hawke said, shuddering.

“You’re the one who made me do this with my bare hands.”

“You’re the one who didn’t bring any tools.”

“Both of you, shut up!” Varric said.

Ahead the light had stopped moving. A deep voice called out, “Who goes there?”

“Sewer cleaners?” Hawke said.

The voice scoffed. “In Kirkwall? That’s a laugh. Get ‘em, boys!”

Bianca cried out three times in rapid succession, and they could hear the thwacks of her quarrels striking bodies, following by the muffled squelching thuds of those bodies falling into the muck at their feet. Hawke’s great blade, worse than useless in these close quarters, had been left at home, and she drew a short sword she kept for times like these. It wasn’t her preferred method of fighting, and she eschewed a shield altogether, not comfortable with the unwieldy weight on her arm. Still, as the man in the lead closed with her, she managed to parry his first blow and slash his throat open before he could strike a second time. The narrow passage made it a series of duels more than a battle, which left Varric out, since Hawke was in front of him and he was too short to shoot over her. Anders might have helped, but he was still scraping the sela petrae off the wall, oblivious to the fighting.

Hawke ducked a high sword blow that was aimed at her neck, thrusting her blade into the stomach of the second man. His armor was too flimsy to protect him from the full force of the blow, and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Hawke’s sword cut into the back of his neck. He was still gurgling as he fell face forward into the sewer, but a mouthful of the rancid liquid on the floor ended that quickly. The last man took one look at Hawke and her blade, dripping blood into the effluvium at their feet, and turned to run. Hawke moved to the side and Bianca gave the man a fatal tongue-lashing.

“Aveline is not going to appreciate this clean-up job,” Hawke observed, looking down at the bodies. “They don’t look like Coterie, Varric.”

“Neither would you if you were facefirst in all of Kirkwall’s leftovers.”

“I certainly hope I don’t look like Coterie at all,” Hawke said, chuckling. “Anders, you ready?”

“There should be more further in,” he said. The bucket banged against his hip as he moved. Varric went ahead, scouting for any further disruptions. Anders and Hawke walked together, his eyes darting back and forth along the walls. He paused to scrape at another deposit. “You know, Hawke, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Oh?”

“Are you sure about that elf?”

“Which elf? Merrill? She seemed glad to go,” Hawke said in surprise.

“Not that elf. The other one.” He glanced at her, his mouth pinched. “You know.”

Getting his meaning, Hawke frowned. “Fenris? What about him?”

“It’s just … he seems more like a wild animal than a man. I think you can do better.”

“I’m sorry, are you presuming to tell me your opinion on my love life?”

He turned, his face uncomfortably close to hers as he looked earnestly into her eyes. “I care about you, Hawke. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“When has this ever been any of your business?” She tried to step away from him, but her back collided with the side of the tunnel. “You don’t know anything about him. Or me, for that matter.”

“I know as much as I’m ever likely to about that … that murderer,” Anders said bitterly. “I just think you’d be happier with someone more open-minded.”

“What, like you? That’s a laugh,” Hawke said derisively. He didn’t answer, and she shook her head. “Anders, this is incredibly intrusive.”

“I’m sorry, but how can you trust him in bed with you at night? He’ll murder you in your sleep! You don’t know what he’s capable of. If he truly cared for you—“

His words were cut off by Hawke’s fist connecting with his jaw. Anders fell to the ground, the muck splashing on his pauldrons. 

“You insufferable, pompous ass! You drag me down here to scrape filth off the walls, expect me to do all the work for you, and then you dare to offer your completely unwanted opinion on my life? You, the most screwed-up person in all of Kirkwall? That’s it, Anders. We’re through. I’m not going to be party to whatever explosion you’re planning on setting off; you can do your own dirty work from now on.”

“It’s a potion,” he protested weakly, and she saw the faint flash of blue light as he healed his jaw.

“It’s not a potion, it’s a bomb. You think I’m so stupid you can lie to my face and I’m not going to know? I’ve put up with your obsessions all this time, Anders, and I’ve protected you for the sake of the people of Darktown and the good you’ve done, but no more.” She picked up the bucket.

“My sela petrae!”

“Go ahead and get yourself some more, if you can find something to carry it in. Maybe you can use it on the Templars when they come for you.”

Varric came hurrying back down the tunnel. “What’s going on back here?” His sharp eyes took in the tableau in front of him, and he looked up at Hawke. “Last straw?”

“You want him, Varric, he’s all yours. I’m through with him.” Hawke spun on her heel, splashing through the sewage, the bucket banging against her leg, leaving Varric to help Anders up. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, and that was fine with her. Varric could let his soft heart rule him all he wanted; she was done.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Hawke went home and bathed, feeling wearied but also relieved. It had been a long time of arguing with herself, as well as with Fenris and Aveline and Sebastian, over the wisdom of continuing to protect Anders. Having cut him loose felt like a huge weight off her shoulders. She thought it was unlikely he could collect all his ‘potion ingredients’ on his own, at least not before she set certain things in motion. Now if she could only get the rest of Kirkwall to look after itself, she’d be a happy woman, she thought.

She found Fenris sitting with Isabela in the Hanged Man, the two of them in the midst of a deep conversation. Hawke paused in the doorway, her heart filling as she watched her lover. It was hard to explain, even to herself, what a difference it made having someone she could rely on. Her father had been the rock her family clung to, and when he had passed they had all turned to her: her mother, her sister, her brother, all depending on her. But none of them had been strong enough for Hawke to be able to lean on them in return. Varric made a good shoulder, and a good partner, but something in Varric was always held back. Fenris held nothing back—everything that he was lay open for her.

Aveline was sitting with Donnic and a few guardsmen, and Hawke paused at their table, laying her hand on her friend’s shoulder. When Aveline looked up, Hawke said, “The cat is out of the bag. Go get him.” They had worked out codes for the others years ago, just in case.

“Really?” Aveline straightened up, her face tightening. “It’s been a long time coming, if you don’t mind my saying so, Hawke.” She stood up. “Guardsmen, with me!”

As they filed out, obeying Aveline’s order unquestioningly, Hawke felt her stomach twist. She hated to think of what the Templars would do to Anders, but he was no longer an acceptable risk to take. She swallowed against the unrest she felt. The decision was made; it was final, and she truly believed it was for the best. Turning away from the door, she made her way toward the table where Fenris sat.

His sensitive ears twitched as she approached, and he looked her, his green eyes wary. Belatedly Evelyn remembered their disagreement. She smiled at him in mute apology, and his posture eased, his eyes warming. 

“How were the sewers?” Isabela asked, grinning.

“Enlightening.”

“That is not the word I would have expected.” Fenris’s eyes searched her face. 

“I made a decision I should have made a long time ago.” 

Isabela nodded. “Wish I could say I was surprised; he could use a swift kick in the head sometimes.”

“Is Varric back?”

“Got back a little while ago. He’s upstairs cleaning off whatever that horrible muck was.”

“Don’t remind me.” Hawke shuddered, taking the seat next to Fenris. “We all right?” she asked quietly.

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “We are fine.” 

“Good, because I never want to sleep alone again. That was miserable.” She basked in the warmth of his sudden full smile, a rarity even now.

“On that point, we are completely agreed.” 

“Does that mean you’ll give up that wretched hulk you live in and move in with me? Please?”

“I will … consider it.”

Hawke shook her head, chuckling. “That’s something, at least.” She squeezed his hand and stood up. “I should go talk to Varric about what happened in the sewers. See you later?”

“I shall be waiting for you.” His eyes took on a wicked gleam.

“In bed?” Evelyn felt her heartrate quicken at his slow nod.

“You’d think I should leave you two alone at this point, but I wouldn’t miss this exchange for all the rum in Rivain,” Isabela put in. They both ignored her.

“You realize I’m not going to be able to think of anything else all night?” Evelyn said to Fenris, and was rewarded by an even more wicked grin. That expression, especially outside the bedroom, was as rare as diamonds. “Stop it, before you get more than you’ve bargained for and give Isabela the show she’s been dreaming of for years.”

“I’ll pay you not to stop,” Isabela said, but Fenris flushed and shook his head, and Evelyn laughed. 

“Some other time, Isabela,” she said, turning toward the stairs.

Evelyn could hear the pirate’s low laugh behind her. Once that would have bothered her, Isabela and all her considerable charms alone with Fenris, but she trusted him. She almost believed that he was hers to keep, unlike everyone else she had ever loved.

She knocked softly on the doorjamb of Varric’s door. The dwarf was sitting in his chair in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames. He didn’t look up when she knocked. “Varric?”

“Come on in, Hawke.”

“You all right?”

“Just thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

He chuckled. “Hawke, have I ever told you how glad I am to have you to watch my back?”

“That’s what I’m here for.” She walked across the room, taking the other chair and pulling it up next to his. “That, and doing all the fighting, of course,” she finished, poking him lightly in the shoulder.

“Well, you wouldn’t want Bianca to get scratched, would you?”

She laughed, as he’d expected her to, even though she’d heard the line a number of times before. Varric nodded to appreciate the gesture and returned to staring into the fire. 

“This is awkward, Hawke,” he said after a few minutes.

“You at a loss for words? I should mark this on my calendar.”

“It might never happen again,” he agreed. “It’s just … it’s been an honor knowing you.”

“Varric, you’re beginning to scare me. Are you—is everything—is there something you want to tell me?”

“No. I just needed to get that off my chest.”

“I’m amazed you could find it in all your chest hair.”

“Now that was a low blow. You know how the ladies love my hirsute beauty.”

“Oh, of course.”

“Do you know what today is, Hawke?”

She thought for a second. “Friday?”

“It’s our anniversary. Six years ago today, I found you walking away from my idiot brother and offered you the best deal of your life.”

“Has it been the best deal of yours, Varric?”

He turned his head, looking at her. “You mean, because I didn’t get to keep my elf?”

“That, and the rest of it. The mages, and Anders, and Bartrand. Things haven’t exactly … always gone your way.”

“All of that would have happened whether I knew you or not, Hawke. And I would have missed the best friend I’ve ever had. I love you, Hawke.”

“I love you, too, my friend.”

They smiled at each other, and then Varric cleared his throat and looked away. “So, uh … I got some very nice Antivan tea in. Want some?”

“I’d love some.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Fenris watched Hawke until she had disappeared up the stairs. He was incredibly relieved that their disagreement had been resolved so easily—unused to relationships of any kind as he was, he always worried when they argued. Not that he didn’t trust Hawke, but belief was hard to learn. After a moment he realized Isabela was still talking. “I am sorry, what did you say?”

“Never mind. I can’t compete with all that armor.” She grinned.

Norah the waitress came by with a tray full of mugs, depositing two at their table. “It gets more and more empty around here. Creepy the way people keep disappearing.”

“Who now?” Isabela asked.

“Yancy. You know, big side whiskers, loud voice?” she added when Isabela looked at her blankly.

The description struck a chord in Fenris’s memory. He remembered the big man with the whiskers. Where had he seen him recently? And then it came to him; outside Mistress Blodgett’s, on his way up to Serah Drury’s barber shop. “How long has it been since he was here?” Fenris asked.

Norah looked up at the ceiling, her tongue sticking out from between her lips as she counted. “Four days?”

That was when Fenris had seen the man. He remembered, suddenly, having given recommendations to Drury’s shop to several denizens of the Hanged Man. Most of those men were among the missing now. A chill flashed through him as a thousand little details snapped together, forming a disturbing picture. “Excuse me,” he said, getting up abruptly.

“What’s with him?” Norah asked as he left, but he didn’t hear Isabela’s answer as the door to the Hanged Man shut behind him.

Mistress Blodgett’s was dark, the demand for pies pretty well over for the day, but he knocked on the door anyway, loudly and insistently.

He heard her coming, shuffling across the floor, before the door opened. “Duckie? What are you doing here at this hour?” She was still fully dressed; strange, Fenris thought, for someone who’d have to be up baking well before first light. 

“I need to speak with you.” He pushed past her, not waiting for agreement. “There are some … strange things occurring, and I believe you may know about them.”

“What would I know?” She wasn’t looking at him, though, and the chill worked its way further into him.

“I assume you are aware that there have been a number of disappearances in Lowtown over the last several years.” He took his usual seat at the counter, while she turned toward the stove, turning the heat up under the kettle.

“Tea?”

“Certainly,” he answered distractedly, watching her body language. She was tense and looked almost frightened.

She set out cups and got out the tea leaves. As she measured out the leaves, she spilled some on the ground. “Ooh, what a mess!” she exclaimed.

“Allow me.” He got up, finding a dustpan and small brush broom and sweeping up the fallen leaves. By the time the mess was cleaned, the kettle was whistling. Fenris resumed his seat, watching as Mistress Blodgett poured the hot water into the cups.

“Now, what’s that you were saying, duckie?” she asked. She seemed less tense now, her manner returning to its soothingly familiar blend of motherliness and coquetry. “Something about people disappearing? Shocking!”

“I believe Serah Drury may have something to do with it.” He believed more than that—he had a sickening suspicion of what was being done with the bodies and why the smell from the bakehouses was so foul, but he couldn’t bring himself to accuse her so directly.

“He’s a man what’s had a few troubles. Tranquil, you know,” she whispered, leaning forward and touching her forehead. “But he wouldn’t go so far as all that. Drink up, duckie.” 

Obediently, he took a long swallow of the hot tea. “I saw that man last week,” he said, “going upstairs. He has not been seen in Kirkwall since.” He took another drink. It was quite good.

“Which man was that?”

He swallowed against a burning in his throat. His head felt strangely heavy. “The … one with the …” But he couldn’t manage the words. A silent alarm buzzed at the back of his head at the avid look on Mistress Blodgett’s face.

“What’s that you say?”

“I …” Blackness was closing in on his vision.

Dimly he heard her whisper, “I’m sorry, duckie, but I’ve worked too hard …” before he lost consciousness entirely.


	41. Blade of Mercy

Sounds reached him hazily through the fog: a heavy thud and a ghastly gurgle. A woman’s voice rose above it all with shrieks that pounded like spikes into Fenris’s head, and he wished she would stop. Slowly he blinked, coming to gradual wakefulness. He reached for the memory of where he might be, remembering only sitting in Mistress Blodgett’s kitchen, drinking tea … and then nothing. 

Where was he? That was the first, and most important, question. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he studied his surroundings, deciding that he was in a basement. To judge from the greasy black grime that covered the walls, it was the basement that held Mistress Blodgett’s bake ovens. The smell was nauseating, and he held onto the contents of his stomach only through the greatest effort. He was tied to a chair with rope—had she really imagined that could hold him? He tested his bonds. Tight, but not overly so. 

Across the basement he recognized Mistress Blodgett standing in front of an opening in the wall, possibly the bottom of a chute. She was beating at something on the floor with a broomstick. Thankfully, she had stopped screaming.

“Do you require assistance?” Fenris asked.

She shrieked again, louder, jumping around to face him. “Oh, duckie, it’s you. You did give me a turn,” she said. She kicked at the something viciously. “He won’t die!”

“Who won’t die?”

“What?” Her eyes shifted guiltily away from his. 

“You may as well be truthful. It would be difficult to prevaricate with me under the circumstances.”

“It would be … come again?” She peered at him across the basement, her brow furrowed.

“Do not lie.”

“Oh.”

“Who is it that you are having to much trouble with?”

“Captain Jeven.”

“Why are you attempting to kill the former Guard Captain?”

“Oh, it’s Drury and his grudges,” she snapped. “Always on about ‘em, he is, all his wrongs.”

“Do I take it that Captain Jeven was involved in the misfortunes that cost Serah Drury his family?”

“I suppose so.” Mistress Blodgett stomped on Jeven’s stomach, hard. “That’s got him.”

“Most resourceful of you,” Fenris said. “May I ask, what is it that you intend to do with me?”

She looked up at him now. “Duckie, you don’t know how sorry I am. If there was any other way … but I’m too close now. I been workin’ toward this for years.”

“Toward what? Murder?” He had hoped that he was wrong about the disappearances, but his current predicament seemed to confirm all his suspicions. 

“Murder?” Mistress Blodgett shook her head. “Oh, no, the murders were just an extra.” Her tone was flat; Fenris couldn’t tell if she was pleased or saddened over having killed people.

“How many were there?”

“How many?”

“Men. How many did you kill?” He restrained his desire to get out of the chair and shake her with some difficulty. She would talk better from a position of power, which necessitated that he stay seated.

“Oh, that.” She shrugged. “I didn’t count ‘em; just took care of ‘em once Serah Drury was finished.” 

“I take it that you ‘took care’ of them by baking them in pies?”

“Figured that out, did you, duckie? Always said you were a smart one.” She put a hand to her mouth at a sudden thought. “But I never fed you none o’ those, no, serah! Kept yours separate, I did, left ‘em on a special shelf.”

“I … am certainly grateful for that,” Fenris said. His stomach turned at the idea of eating human flesh, although a hitherto unknown whimsical portion of his mind briefly wondered if it would have been cannibalism for an elf to eat human flesh. Almost certainly Varric’s influence, that. “What was the purpose of these killings?”

Her lips parted, her eyes shining, but before she could answer a body shot from the chute in the wall, landing on the floor with a heavy thump. Fenris could see the gaudy cloth of a nobleman’s suit, dyed red from blood. Mistress Blodgett hurried across the floor toward it, crying out when a second body followed the first, nearly landing on her feet. The second body was much smaller, the clothing a mass of rags. She bent over to look at the second body and stumbled back, her screams taking on a note of genuine horror. 

Fenris heard footsteps on stone, and the squealing of the metal door opening. Drury hurried in. He didn’t glance in Fenris’s direction; his gaze went immediately to the bodies at the bottom of the chute. “I have done it,” he was whispering to himself. “At last, I have done it!” 

Mistress Blodgett caught him by the arms before he could reach the bodies. “It’s over now, love. We can stop all this, we can close the pie shop and the barber shop and go away, we can … we can get married.” Her eyes glittered as she looked up into his face and Fenris looked away, feeling that he was intruding on an intimate moment.

But Drury pushed her aside, not even looking at her. “I am already married,” he said brusquely. “I have told you so many times before.”

“She’s gone, you know that!” Mistress Blodgett hurried after him. “She’s been gone all these years and your daughter’s with that Templar now and you’re free, but you can’t stop studyin’ on all your wrongs.” 

Drury bent over Jeven’s body. “All these years, I dreamed of having their throats under my hands and now I’ve done it! I held my razor up and sliced them open and it was … everything I had imagined.” He moved on to the other body. “But this one isn’t finished yet.” He lifted the body from the ground. Fenris was not surprised to recognize Serah Terrien.

The nobleman’s fingers moved feebly on Drury’s sleeve. “Who—Why?” he gasped, blood spurting from a wound in his neck and spraying Drury. “Drury …”

“Not Drury. Look closely.” The two men stared at one another, Terrien’s broken breathing the only sound in the room.

“Chris … topher … Car … ver,” he gasped at last.

“Christopher Carver!” Drury shook the dying man. “I swore I would have my vengeance.”

Terrien gasped, blood bubbling from his mouth, a final gurgle the last sound he would ever emit.

Drury dropped the body contemptuously. He started to turn toward Mistress Blodgett, but he tripped on the second body, going down on one knee. “This old woman just showed up, babbling. Nearly kept me from finishing Terrien off.” He turned the head, looking more closely at the face.

“Get away from her!” Mistress Blodgett screeched, running toward him, but she was too late.

“Oh, no!” Drury roared, the cry reverberating across the basement, bouncing off the stone walls. Fenris shivered at the raw grief in the tone. “Dulcie!” Drury gathered the body in his arms, and looked up at Mistress Blodgett, tears shining in his eyes. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew my Dulcie lived, but you let me believe—“

“That crazy old hag!” Mistress Blodgett snapped. “Her mind was gone, stuck somewhere between here and the Fade. Knew she was trouble, I did. Always said so. I told Captain Jeven—“ She caught herself, but Drury had heard enough. He got to his feet, laying the body tenderly on the ground. 

“What have you done?”

“Betrayal.” The voice came from behind Drury, and he and Mistress Blodgett both turned, staring at the old woman’s body, now suffused with a green glow. “Dulcie trusted you.” The body rose to its feet, the voice of Anguish speaking from the dead mouth, and it walked toward Mistress Blodgett, who shrank back with a scream. “You are the one who called the Templars on her, all those years ago. Weren’t you?”

Mistress Blodgett cowered away from the bloody body. “I—“

“What did you do?” Drury turned on her, his eyes blazing. “Are you the one who destroyed my family?” 

“You don’t understand,” Mistress Blodgett moaned. “Please, you have to listen.” She reached out for Drury’s shoulders, but he stepped back with an exclamation of disgust. “I did it for you! It was all for you!”

“She called them,” Anguish said, “and they took the wrong person. Dulcie was the mage; but they took her husband instead. Because he,” the body kicked Terrien’s lifeless form, “wanted her. But Dulcie would not submit, and they Harrowed her. You knew that, too, didn’t you?” the spirit asked Mistress Blodgett. “You knew what they did to her.”

“You lied to me,” Drury said, his voice wavering. Mistress Blodgett’s mouth was moving in soundless, useless denials that no one believed. “All this time, I thought I could trust you …” He lunged for her.

Fenris couldn’t sit still any longer. He had watched the drama unfolding in front of him, knowing this was none of his affair, but Mistress Blodgett had taken him under her wing from the moment he arrived. He cared for her more than he cared for any other person in his life other than Hawke. He couldn’t sit by and watch her be harmed, no matter what she had done. His hands weren’t free of blood, either. The lyrium markings blazed along his skin, and he slid his wrists neatly through the ropes, leaving the chair with a giant leap and thrusting himself in between Drury and Mistress Blodgett. “You will not harm her.”

“You! Why are you here?” Drury halted in front of Fenris, stumbling slightly.

“This isn’t your concern,” Anguish said. “Stand aside. We will have vengeance.”

“Vengeance? You know what vengeance is. You have seen it warp Justice from his true form,” Fenris said to the spirit. “This is not your world. Go back to the Fade and let these people be.”

“I am not Justice. I have lived this woman’s sorrow, drawn it into myself. I will make an end of it, here and now.”

“That time is past,” Fenris said. “You cannot help her now—and spirits should not meddle in the affairs of mortals.”

“Perhaps not; this is not my place. But it is hard to live with such sorrow and loss for so long and simply let it go.” Tears fell from the body’s dead eyes. 

“It will be righted,” Fenris said.

“Swear it?”

“I do.”

The green glow began to fade, and Drury caught the body as it fell. “Dulcie!”

“I’m so sorry,” whispered Mistress Blodgett over Fenris’s shoulder. “I never wanted to lie to you, Christopher. But I’d have made you twice the wife she was.”

“She’s all I ever wanted, everything I ever dreamed of,” Drury said softly, rocking the body in his arms. He looked up at Mistress Blodgett. “You took her away from me. Because of you, they dragged me away from my family. My daughter was raised by that monster back there. She doesn’t even know who I am. I haven’t slept a full night since they branded me. I trusted you! I touched you.” He swallowed, looking disgusted. “I took you the way I longed to take Dulcie, because I believed she was gone, and there she was under my nose the whole time.” He looked at Fenris, still standing between the two of them. “Move aside, lad. This is mine to do.”

“I cannot let you harm her,” Fenris said. He knew he should step aside, but he couldn’t bear to lose the dream he had allowed himself. If Mistress Blodgett’s affection for him wasn’t real, maybe other things he had believed were false, as well. He couldn’t take the chance. “I am sorry.”

Drury’s eyes locked on Fenris’s for a moment, the battle of wills between them silent but clear to both men. “If I live, she doesn’t,” Drury said at last. “Do it, lad.”

“No, duckie!” Mistress Blodgett grasped his arm, her fingernails digging into his skin. 

“May you meet your Dulcie again beyond the Veil,” Fenris said quietly. The lyrium sprang to life, the room so silent he could almost hear it buzzing, and he thrust his arm inside Drury’s chest. The older man’s eyes closed as Fenris’s hand grasped his heart, but Fenris could have sworn he saw relief there. He pulled the heart free, watching the body crumple to the floor next to that of the old woman. He hoped the Maker would look kindly on the couple, victims of a plot they could never have foreseen. 

“No! Why did you have to do that? I could have talked to him,” Mistress Blodgett cried, falling to her knees next to Drury’s body, stroking his hair with trembling hands. The sunburst from the Rite of Tranquillity stood out in stark relief on his forehead.

“It is past talking now,” Fenris said. His eyes were burning, his throat sore and constricted. Was this grief? He had never felt it so strongly that he could remember; he had no memory of ever weeping, but it felt dangerously as though he might do so. “Why?”

“I loved him,” she said. “She never deserved him, foolish little thing. She wasn’t half good enough for a man like him. I thought … if I sent her to the Gallows … but Terrien betrayed me. He took the wrong one of them. And then she refused Terrien, the little idiot, and he sent her to be Harrowed. But she never came out of the Fade, not all the way. I never meant for that to happen; all I wanted was for them to lock her up!” Mistress Blodgett bent over, her shoulders shaking as she wept. 

“Why was it necessary to kill all those men, the ones who went to the barbershop?”

“It’s what he wanted to do,” she said. “He was taken with his revenge, it’s all he could think of. And what he wanted, I wanted. I’d have done anything for him.”

“Whose idea was it to … cook them?”

She giggled, a strange, hiccuping sound. “His. Always a genius, he was. Business never better, half of Kirkwall lining up to eat the rest. Took care of you, though, didn’t I, duckie?” She glanced up at him with him affection.

Fenris passed his hand over his eyes, blinking against the burning in them. To think he had felt—still felt—affection for this sick creature. “What will you do now?” 

“I don’t rightly know,” she said. “I’ll have to find some way to go on with the shop, I suppose. It’ll be harder without him,” she said, tenderly touching the dead face.

“You mean to … continue this homicidal course?” Fenris could hardly believe his ears.

“What else is there to do?”

“You could go back to … what you were before.”

She laughed. “Worst pies in Kirkwall? Scrounging for every copper, fighting the cats for a piece of meat to bake into a pie no one would eat? No, duckie.”

In his mind’s eye, he could see how a trial would go, how she would be mocked and laughed at by all of Kirkwall. And they would just hang her, anyway. He couldn’t bear to let that happen to her, not when he could end it for her here, see her off to the Maker himself. She deserved that much, didn’t she, to have her life ended by someone who cared for her? His hands clenched, willing the lyrium to light, but it wouldn’t respond to his wishes. He tried again, a strange strangled sound coming from his throat, but he couldn’t activate the lyrium. Instead, he looked around the room for an alternate weapon, spying a carving knife wedged into a butcher’s block. Fenris cast a glance at Mistress Blodgett’s bowed head. She was weeping again, rocking back and forth over Drury’s body. 

Crossing the room, he took up the knife, and then he moved up behind her. “I have … cared for you,” he admitted in a voice thick with what he refused to admit were tears.

“You were like the son I never had,” she whispered, but she didn’t move. Her body had gone still, almost as though she knew what he intended.

With a single motion, he cut her throat. She slumped forward over Drury’s body, her blood coating both of them.

Fenris dropped the knife, his arm suddenly feeling like lead. An incredible weariness filled his body; he could barely put one foot in front of the other.

The metal door hadn’t closed when Drury came through it. Fenris closed it behind himself; he would have to inform Aveline of what had transpired, but later. For now all he could think of was getting to Hawke, finding himself safe in her arms. Perhaps that would warm the ice that seemed to have formed inside him.

He was surprised to find it still dark as he dragged himself up the steps from the basement bakehouse. Lowtown was silent and still around him, for which he was grateful. For the first time, it occurred to him that Hawke might have been worried about him, and the need to keep her from feeling any unnecessary concern over his welfare spurred him to move faster. If anyone was around on the darkened streets, they stayed clear of him.

At last he saw the door, a shining beacon ahead of him. He moved toward it, his leaden legs feeling suddenly lighter. Home! He’d never had such a thing before, but this was where she was, and that made it something more than a mere dwelling place. 

Fenris pulled the door open, staggering into the foyer.

Evelyn rushed forward, fully armored, and caught him in her arms as his knees buckled. “Where have you been? I was so worried! I was just about to go looking for you.”

He mumbled something against her shoulder, but even he wasn’t sure what it was.

“What happened, Fenris?” Evelyn rested her cheek on his hair, and he put his arms around her waist, clinging to her.

“Evelyn …” He searched for words, but none would come, and he found himself sobbing against her shoulder like a child, weeping for everything he had lost—not just tonight but at the hands of Danarius. Fragments of memory floated through the back of his mind, pictures of Mistress Blodgett mingling with half-recalled images of his real mother. Through it all, Hawke held him, her solid presence the only thing he had to cling to.

At last the storm passed and he withdrew, ashamed of his abandon. He took Hawke’s proffered handkerchief, blowing his nose, keeping his face averted. Quietly, in as few words as he could manage, he told her what had transpired in the bakehouse.

Hawke’s face paled as he described the situation, but she didn’t say anything, and he was glad for it. He wasn’t certain he could take any kindness at the moment. Never in all his memory had he surrendered to his weaker emotions this way.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Evelyn said, putting an arm around his waist.

Vaguely Fenris was aware of feeling amazed that she was still willing to touch him after what he had done, but it was lost in a haze of exhaustion. He allowed her to lead him upstairs to their bedroom and to put him to bed, practically asleep before Evelyn got him undressed. 

When he woke late the next morning, he sat up in the covers for a long time, too drained even to wonder where Hawke was. He leaned forward over his drawn-up knees, seeing the end of the family he had imagined he had, Mistress Blodgett’s body left on the dirty floor of that stinking basement. There were no more tears; he had cried them all the night before. 

Fenris didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there before Hawke poked her head in the door. “There you are.”

“Were you not aware that I was here?”

“No, I knew. It was just something to say.” She closed the door behind her, crossing to the bed and sitting down on it, facing him. “I won’t ask if you’re all right.”

“Very wise.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do you want to talk about your mother?” He was ashamed of himself before the words had left his mouth.

Hawke shook her head. “Predictable. You’ll have to do better than that if you want to make me angry. I know you’d be more comfortable that way.”

“I’m sorry. I am not accustomed to …” 

“I know. The only emotion you know how to express is anger. But you’re coming along nicely in other areas,” she said, reaching out to squeeze his bent knee through the covers. “There’s nothing shameful about letting yourself feel grief, Fenris. You cared for Mistress Blodgett, and she for you. No matter what else she may have done—“ Hawke paused, shuddering. “There’s no doubt that she had affection for you.”

“And this is a good thing? That a woman who thought nothing of destroying a family, of murdering who knows how many innocent men, saw something in me to care for?”

Hawke shrugged, barking a bitter little laugh. “I’ve destroyed a few families in my time, I’m sure,” she said, “and killed some men who were probably innocent. And I see something in you to care for.”

“That is not the same.”

“Isn’t it?” Mercifully, she didn’t wait for him to answer. “Aveline’s guardsmen have been to clean up. Do you want to hold services?”

He had not considered the practical aspects, but he had a hard time envisioning those bodies on a pyre. “No. Let them rest. What of Susannah?” he asked. 

“She and Trevor have been staying in a shack in Lowtown, near Uncle Gamlen’s, but they’re talking about going away somewhere—out of Meredith’s reach. Trevor’s left the Templars. Do you want to tell her about her family?”

“Would you want to know if that was where you came from?” 

“Maybe you could write it down for her, so she can read it someday when she’s ready.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” he said, nodding. “I shall do so.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“Hawke, did I do the right thing? Should I have left them for a court to try? I … I couldn’t have borne it, watching her as a prisoner, watching her hang, but perhaps that was selfish of me.”

“What possible other outcome could there have been? They killed who knows how many men over the years, Fenris. The courts would have sentenced them to death, as well, and the whole sordid story would have come out, but without the compassion you felt. You gave them a merciful death.”

“But did they deserve such a thing? Did she deserve such a thing?”

“Everyone deserves mercy.” Hawke got up, walking to the wardrobe. She took a long package from the depths of the cupboard, bringing it over and laying it on the bed. “Open it.”

He unfolded the cloth, revealing a beautifully crafted blade of a type he knew well. “This is a Blade of Mercy. How did you get your hands on it?” She flushed guiltily, and he felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “You scavenged it from a crate somewhere.”

“Something like that. I thought you might like it.”

“Do you know the history of the Blade of Mercy?”

“It’s the sword Archon Hessarion used to spare Andraste the flames. Not unlike what you did, although Mistress Blodgett wasn’t exactly Andraste.”

“These are not uncommon in the Imperium.” He ran his hand over the blade, activating the runes buried within. The blade glowed against the dark covers of the bed. 

“Do you know why I thought this was a good gift for you?”

“Tell me.”

“Danarius conditioned you to be without mercy, to be a creature of anger, to deny any other emotion. But you are so much more than that. I was saving this sword for a day … well, not like this one, since who could have predicted … but for a day when you would have to believe in something beyond anger.”

“These are a badge of honor in the Imperium, often given as a gift to a general after a successful battle. Insofar as anyone in Tevinter understands honor, that is. Danarius always wanted one.” He ran his hand down the blade again. “It seems to me that you should bear this blade—you are the one of us who is truly merciful and honorable.”

“Not always. And not in the same way. There’s honor in holding to your principles and mercy in not being swayed by feelings of friendship into placing a whole city in danger. I still can’t believe I let Anders talk me into helping him, however briefly.” Hawke walked to the window, looking pensively out.

He wondered why Hawke hadn’t killed the mage when she had the chance. Perhaps that was what she meant, Fenris thought. He had believed death was the kindest gift he could give to Mistress Blodgett, viewing her as too damaged to be a safe risk; Hawke had viewed allowing Anders to live as the merciful choice and would henceforth have to count his actions against the one she hadn’t taken. Under other circumstances, he might have argued with Hawke, but he could easily understand how she might not have the strength to lose another person she cared for, especially not by her own hand. “Is he in custody?” 

“No. By the time Aveline and her men got to his clinic, he was gone. Somewhere in the underground; Varric won’t tell me where. Maker, I hope he doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“Come here,” he said, holding out a hand to her. She came to the bed, sitting down next to him and pressing her forehead against his. “We have both had a very long day.”

“We have.”

“I believe we should spend the rest of the day here in our room, recuperating.”

“Your best idea ever,” she murmured. Then she pulled away from him, her eyes shining. “Fenris! You said ‘our room’.”

“Did I?”

“You did.” She kissed him impetuously, and he pulled her against him, kissing her as if his life depended on it. It wasn’t until much later that he remembered to thank her for the gift.


	42. Intermission

For once, Evelyn was the first one to wake. She lay still to avoid disturbing Fenris, so that she could watch him sleep. He had one arm flung above his head and his white hair was over his eyes, ruffling slightly as he breathed. In the week since the scene in Mistress Blodgett’s basement, he had been agitated and twitchy, taking offense at the lightest comments. He’d gotten in a shouting argument with Sebastian in the middle of the Chantry—Fenris had really had to work at that, too, since Sebastian rarely allowed himself to be goaded into anger. 

Evelyn had tried to remain silent and supportive, but she couldn’t restrain the uneasy feeling that maybe Fenris needed some kind of assurances that she simply couldn’t provide. 

“Have you seen enough?” His voice broke into her reverie. One green eye was peering at her out from under the tousled hair, and his mouth curled up at the corner in a half-smile.

“Not nearly.” She burrowed her face into the junction of his neck and shoulder. Fenris’s arm went around her, pulling her closer to him.

“How long have you been awake?” Fenris asked.

“A few minutes. Happy Satinalia.” 

“Hmm. How shall we celebrate?”

“Traditionally, there’s a feast.”

“Is there?” Fenris’s hand found her breast, stroking it through her nightshirt. “There is something I am hungry for.” Rolling over, he pushed up her nightshirt, putting his mouth where his hand had been.

Some time later they managed to get out of bed and eat breakfast. Hawke distributed Satinalia gifts to Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana. Fenris had purchased a few small trifles for them as well. Sandal was entranced by the blown glass globe he was given, turning it in the light and watching the colors play inside it. Orana carried her box of Antivan and Rivaini spices back to the kitchen to get started on some new recipes, and Bodahn tucked his box of nug jerky in a number of exciting flavors away where Sandal wouldn’t be able to find it.

Evelyn started to get dressed to go out, but slowly and rather ostentatiously, hoping Fenris would ask her where she was going or would offer to come along, saving her from the discomfort of having to ask him herself. He seemed oblivious, however, standing with one arm braced on the mantelpiece, staring down into the flames.

“Um, Fenris?”

“Yes?” 

“Could you—I mean, would you … That is to say, um …”

Now he did turn, raising one black eyebrow.

“Will you come to the Gallows with me to see my sister?” The words came out in a rush, and she waited, holding her breath, for him to say no.

“I was not aware that you visited your sister on holidays.”

“I don’t, usually. But … well, why shouldn’t I? She’s my sister! And I miss her. So will you come with me?”

“Why do you require my presence?”

“Not require, so much, but, well, I’d like her to, um, see you and I’d feel … better if you were there.”

“If it is important to you, of course I will go.”

He said it so flatly that for a moment she wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. “Thank you.” She moved closer, taking his hand and bringing it to her lips. “I’ll be sure to thank you properly when we get home.”

“I shall look forward to it.”

Fenris was mostly silent on their trip across to the Gallows, which gave Evelyn time to consider why she felt it was so important to go see her sister today. She’d seen Bethany only twice since their mother had died, both times briefly, the conversations stilted and uncomfortable. She barely knew her sister anymore. But in the sorrow of having lost that connection, Evelyn was starting to wonder if she’d ever known Bethany at all. Bethany had always been her little sister, to be protected and taken care of and tolerated on jobs, and they had gotten along well enough, drawn together in their mutual impatience with the always-too-aggressive Carver. Now Evelyn wondered if she’d ever really given Bethany the chance to be her own person. What would Bethany have done as an apostate loose in Kirkwall? Would she have had the fortitude to resist the siren calls of blood magic and demonic possession? Would she have found a way to fight that battle and win it, a way less self-destructive than the path Anders had taken?

Evelyn felt a new urgency, a pressing need to somehow reconnect with her sister and find out who exactly Bethany was.

Cullen looked up as Hawke was ushered into his office. “Serah Hawke! This is something of a surprise.”

“For me as well, Knight-Captain.” Hawke smiled. “I would have thought they’d have given you Satinalia off. Don’t Templars get holidays?”

“The Knight-Commander doesn’t encourage the mages—or the Templars—to celebrate Satinalia. It encourages the mages to continue to be part of a life we have asked them to leave behind.”

“’Asked’?” Evelyn echoed, but decided to let it pass. “I was hoping to see my sister.”

Cullen frowned.

“After all these years, you still don’t trust me.”

“It’s my job to trust no one.”

“Just a few minutes, that’s all I ask.”

“Very well. She will be shown into the dining hall in ten minutes’ time.” Cullen sighed. “Please, do not make a habit of this. Even you are not immune to Meredith’s anger … and you don’t want to draw attention to your sister.”

“I understand. Thank you, Cullen.”

“Happy Satinalia.” He smiled at last, although it didn’t reach his eyes.

“And to you.” 

She rejoined Fenris in the waiting area, and they were led to the dining hall by a helmeted Templar. 

“Sister!” Bethany called out, hurrying across the room toward them. “And … Fenris, yes?”

He nodded.

“What are you doing here?” Bethany asked. 

“It’s Satinalia. I came to wish you a happy day.”

“Oh. They don’t let us celebrate much in here.”

“So Cullen said.” Evelyn motioned toward the wooden bench of one of the long tables. “Can we sit?”

“I don’t have very long. I’m due in Orsino’s office for some … practice.” Bethany blushed a very becoming pink. 

“Say no more. I spoke with Orsino during the Qunari attack. He said—”

Bethany cut her off with a small shake of the head and a glance toward the Templar. She turned toward Fenris. “I take it your presence here means that you and my sister are together.”

He shifted his feet uncomfortably. “Yes.”

“Have you rethought your position on mages in the years since I last saw you?”

“No.”

“Wonderful.” Bethany looked back at Evelyn. “What are you really here for, Sister?”

“I just … Bethany, are you happy?”

“Happy? As much as anyone can be, locked away indoors and constantly watched by people who think you’re about to go crazy and kill everyone in Kirkwall. I have friends, and … more. I’m better off than most mages.”

“I’m sorry, Bethany. For letting you be locked up in here, for never taking you seriously enough, for … not letting you stand on your own more. I—“ Evelyn swallowed, finding the next words hard to say. “I sometimes … resented having to take care of you.”

“I know.” The first recognizable smile of the visit flashed across Bethany’s face. “You’re not a very good actor, you know.”

Evelyn nodded ruefully. “Well, it occurs to me that … I should have trusted you more. We could have been a good team.”

“Thank you, Sister.” Bethany reached a hand toward Evelyn. The Templar in the doorway cleared his throat, shifting his stance, and Bethany bit her lip. “Time’s up. I have to be going.”

“All right. I just … wanted to say that.” Evelyn turned to go.

“Sister!” Evelyn paused, and Bethany hastily whispered, “Be careful. The other mages are … troubled. They’re being stirred up somehow, and your name keeps being mentioned. Take care.”

“Thank you.”

“Be well, Sister.” There seemed to Evelyn to be forgiveness in her sister’s smile. Or at least, something close enough that she could pretend it had been a successful visit.

On their way out, the Templar stopped them on the steps, removing his helmet. Hawke recognized Keran, a young Templar she had saved from blood mages years ago. “Champion, be careful. There is … a group amassing that sees you as a powerful tool. They might try to use someone close to you to gain leverage against you.” He glanced at Fenris and then away. “I owe you my life. I wouldn’t want to see anything unfortunate happen to you.”

“Thank you, Keran.”

The young Templar nodded, hastily putting his helmet back on.

“What do you think that was about?” Hawke asked as they walked down the steps away from the Gallows.

“I do not know,” Fenris said. “It would not be the first time you were a target.”

“Probably won’t be the last, either. Still, keep your eyes out for Templars.”

“I am certain I could handle a few rogue Templars.”

“Of course you can … but do we really want the hassle of explaining to Meredith what happened to her men?” Hawke grinned, looping her arm through Fenris’s. “Let’s go. We have just enough time to get home and change for Aveline’s party.”

“You may change. I feel quite comfortable in my usual armor.”

“Oh, please wear the black set Varric got you for Aveline’s wedding. Please?”

“I was not aware you had noticed that.”

“Noticed? No. Wanted to rip it off you in the middle of the Chantry? Yes.”

“In that case, perhaps I should wear it all the time.”

An hour and a half later, they arrived at Aveline and Donnic’s apartment in the Viscount’s keep. Bodahn, lent to Aveline for the night, opened the door for them. “Evelyn Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, and Serah Fenris,” he intoned, just as though he didn’t do their laundry and cook their meals.

Aveline hurried up to them, beautiful in a tailored dark green gown that brought out her eyes and flattered her hair. “Hawke, why did I let you talk me into this? Everyone’s here, and I’m certain to make a fool of myself any moment.”

“You let me talk you into this because you knew I was right,” Hawke said, smiling at her friend. “Nice dress. Isabela’s choice?”

“Yes. The dirty whore does have good taste in clothes, even if she never wears any. She’s around somewhere, no doubt embarrassing me.”

“You invited Isabela?” Fenris asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Hawke’s the one who decided my Satinalia party should ‘advance my standing in society’. I just wanted to have some friends over,” Aveline said.

“And again I inquire, you invited Isabela?” Fenris’s eyes warmed with the teasing.

“Shut up, elf.” But Aveline smiled at him despite the sharp words. 

“Who else is here?” Hawke asked, taking a glass of champagne from Orana, who had also been borrowed for the occasion.

“Varric, of course. The Seneschal and some … person from the Blooming Rose as his companion. Charade is here—she came with Isabela. Sebastian sent his regrets, as did the Grand Cleric, but Mother Claudia came to represent the Chantry. The de Launcets and a few other nobles. And my guardsmen, all the ones who aren’t currently on duty,” Aveline finished, with a defiant look at Hawke.

“Good! They should be here. Give these nobles some idea what it’s like for the people on the street,” Hawke said. She looked at Fenris. “Shall we go see if we can find my cousin?” 

“By all means,” Fenris agreed.

They moved through the crowd, listening to snatches of conversation. 

“ … completely ruined the curtains. You just can’t get good elves these days!”

“ … Knight-Commander Meredith will go too far. Mark my words …”

“ … and there Hawke was, in the middle of a nest of full-grown dragons, wearing only a sleeping shift and armed with nothing but a rope and a pair of scissors …”

“So I said, ‘What, did you think I paid for them?’” Isabela’s rich laugh rose above the din. She was standing with one arm around Charade’s waist, regaling a mixed group of guardsmen and nobles with a completely inappropriate story. She broke off when she saw the two of them coming. “Hawke!”

“Isabela.” Hawke kissed her cousin on the cheek. “Charade, I could have sworn you told me you had business in Antiva right about now.”

Charade shrugged. “Isabela convinced me to take an extended vacation in Kirkwall. So if you need an archer for any …” Her voice trailed off and she looked around at the assembled company. “Instruction!” She finished brightly, fooling no one.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Hawke grinned. “How are you getting along with Gamlen?”

“He’s a cranky old coot,” Charade said.

“But he does love it when the girls sit on his lap.” Isabela winked.

“I wish you’d stop doing that. He’s my father, for the Maker’s sake!” Charade said. Isabela pretended to look abashed, but her eyes twinkled.

“Good job with Aveline’s dress,” Hawke said. “She looks almost regal.”

“Well, that seemed to be the idea.”

“Oh, you got that?” Hawke smiled at her friend. “You get a long way by letting people underestimate your intelligence, don’t you?”

“Careful, sweet thing. Let’s not let that get around.”

Hawke felt Fenris’s hand cupping her elbow. “If you will excuse us,” he said courteously. 

“Oh, any time.”

“Lucky cousin,” Charade sighed.

Fenris steered Hawke toward the corner where Donnic stood, looking ill-at-ease. “You are not looking festive, my friend,” he observed as they came toward Aveline’s husband.

“This isn’t quite my usual type of event. I’d be more comfortable at the Hanged Man.”

“I believe that sentiment is shared by many of those present.” Fenris chuckled.

“Aveline’s doing quite well, though,” Hawke observed, watching as her friend laughed with Seneschal Bran and his date.

“She has had a lot of experience,” Donnic said. “On the other hand, I find myself completely at sea in these circumstances.”

“You’ll need to practice,” Hawke said. “Aveline has a big future in this city, and as her husband, you need to be an asset and an aid to her.”

“Hawke,” Fenris said.

“No, my friend, the Champion’s right. Aveline deserves someone who can be at home in this environment. I have little to offer.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow, his eyes warming with humor. “Perhaps I can offer you a coup Aveline has never been able to land. That should impress the Seneschal.”

“What kind of coup?” Donnic asked.

“There is a mansion in Hightown that is falling apart; the Seneschal has wanted to seize it and sell the prime real estate for many years and Aveline has never managed to accomplish that task. I offer it to you.”

“Fenris! Do you mean it?” Evelyn turned to him, elation surging in her. “You’re moving in with me?”

He nodded. “I have gained all the mansion has to offer. It is time to let it go.” 

Oblivious to the room full of Kirkwall’s most powerful citizens, she threw herself into his arms, kissing him. Let them murmur about the Champion’s inappropriate behavior with her elf. If one of them wanted to duel a Qunari warrior in single combat, they could have the title and be welcome to it.

“Later,” Fenris murmured, disentangling himself from her. “Let us see what Donnic does with his windfall.”

They watched as Donnic crossed the room, placing a hand on Aveline’s shoulder. Evelyn loved seeing the light that shone in Aveline’s face as she looked up at her husband; her friend had suffered and lost, but she had gained the happiness she richly deserved here in Kirkwall. Donnic spoke earnestly to the Seneschal, whose face broke into a careful smile. He reached out, shaking Donnic’s hand. Aveline turned, glancing at Hawke and Fenris over her shoulder, giving a small nod that conveyed her appreciation for the gesture.

“Is there anyone else you feel the need to speak to?” Fenris asked.

Evelyn shook her head. “I just want to go home and be alone with you.”

His eyes lit with an expression that would have been a broad grin in anyone else. “I, too.”

“Hawke, have you tried the cheese puffs?” Varric appeared at her elbow with a plate full of hors d’oeuvres. “It’s Orlesian, I think, but it has a piquancy …”

“Tell me all about it tomorrow, Varric.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking from Hawke to Fenris and back. “You two are a treasure trove of sickeningly romantic epic poetry.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“How do you know I haven’t? Maybe I have a safe filled with poems about your great love story locked away somewhere, to be released all over Thedas when I die.”

Hawke turned to Fenris. “Remind me to get Isabela looking for that safe.”

“Hawke, you wound me. You really think I’m not ten steps ahead of Rivaini? After all, she’s inspiring a fair amount of sappy poetry these days herself. Your cousin’s arrival is costing the Rose a pretty penny in Rivaini’s coin.”

“I don’t know whether to be proud of Isabela or disturbed at my cousin’s taste.” Hawke grinned. “Can you make our excuses to Aveline? We have some … Satinalia celebrating to do.”

“Of course. Have a good night.”

“Oh, we will.” 

A chill was in the air, and Evelyn was glad the walk to her estate from the Keep was so short. 

“What do you think the Seneschal will do with the mansion?” Fenris asked.

“I’d like to think he’d give it to Aveline and Donnic.”

“Is Aveline aware that you are positioning her in opposition to Meredith?”

“She’d be a fool not to have thought of it herself, and Aveline’s no fool. As Guard-Captain, Aveline has done more for this city than anyone else in the last several years. Other than the Seneschal, but if he wanted the power, he’d have made a bid for it already. No, Aveline’s the right person to put forth. She’s as strong as Meredith, but her power has always been used for Kirkwall’s benefit, where Meredith uses hers to put forth her personal agendas.”

“You are taking the mages’ side?”

“I’m saying that Meredith goes too far. But so does Anders. Somewhere there has to be a middle ground, but I don’t know where that lies.”

“What will you do if you are forced to make a decision?”

Evelyn sighed. “I don’t know. Weigh the variables at the time, I suppose. I hope it doesn’t come to that. It’s why I think Aveline needs to become a stronger power in Kirkwall, to hopefully forestall that moment.” She reached for the doorknob. “Now, no more politics for tonight.” They went inside, the rooms cold and dark without Bodahn to build the fires and light the lamps, and made their way up to their bedroom.

“I have to confess, I did not get you a Satinalia gift.”

“You’re giving up the mansion, Fenris. That’s all the gift I could have asked for. Besides, you haven’t exactly been in a giving mood.”

“No, that is true. I … the events of last week … I …”

“It’s all right, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” She took his hands.

“No, I wish to do so, but I cannot seem to find the words. I placed … affection … ”

“You trusted her; you cared for her, and she turned out to be not what you thought she was.”

“Just so. And I thought … I doubted …” His eyes dropped. “I am ashamed to admit that I doubted … this. Us.” Fenris let out a long breath. “I am sorry if that pains you.”

Evelyn bit her lip against the sting of it. She knew him too well to take it personally. “It does, a little. But you’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

“In that basement, it seemed as if … as if everything that I thought while Danarius held my chains was correct, and that … love did not really exist. Yet all I could think of was coming home, to you.”

“I’ll always be here.” She squeezed his hands. “I promise.”

“You are an extraordinarily generous woman.”

“Me? I’m selfish beyond belief. Kirkwall has taken so much from me and given so little back. I’m not letting you go. Not ever, Fenris.” She heard her voice quiver and blinked away hot tears.

Fenris took her face in his hands and his lips met hers. Evelyn clung to his arms, losing herself in the sweetness of his kiss. His hands moved over her shoulders, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her close as the kiss deepened. Evelyn pressed herself against the warmth and strength of his body, finding the buckles of his armor and deftly undoing them. Without breaking the kiss, he let the top half of the armor fall to the carpet before attacking the buttons down the back of her dress. It slid down her body, pooling at her feet, and Fenris lifted her out of the pile of fabric, carrying her to the bed, his mouth still laying claim to hers. 

They broke the kiss for a moment as Evelyn wriggled out of her smallclothes and Fenris pulled his off with his leggings, but then he was resting on top of her, the heat of his body warming her clear through, their lips meeting hungrily. Evelyn rubbed her pelvis against his, and he growled against her mouth, the friction exciting them both. Slowly, he found her center, sliding inside. Evelyn’s cry of pleasure was lost in their kiss.

Her hands traced the muscles in his back as they rippled with his movements, each thrust a delicious caress. Evelyn wrapped her legs around his hips, holding him against her, their bodies moving as they climbed together. Their mouths were still joined as they crested and fell.

The kiss ended as slowly as it had begun. Evelyn looked up into his face, her fingers tracing his cheekbones and pushing the hair back off his forehead.

“I believe this is real,” he whispered. “I believe in you.”


	43. By the Sea

Fenris put another log on the fire, rubbing his arms. Long as he had lived in Kirkwall, he had never acclimated—he thought longingly of the steaming hot jungles of Seheron. But of course, here in Kirkwall he had Hawke, and she kept things quite steamy between them. She was late tonight; no doubt still trading stories with Isabela and Charade and Aveline. They'd had what Charade referred to as a "girls' night" while Fenris held Diamondback night at Hawke's—their—estate. His mansion was now firmly in the hands of the Seneschal, and Aveline reported that a great deal of scouring and scrubbing and stripping of filthy wallpaper and carpets had already been accomplished.

Picking up his book, Fenris settled into the comfortable arm chair with a mostly contented sigh, losing himself in the adventures of the long-ago Blight hero Garahel. The book had clearly been written by an author who inclined toward Varric's school of sensationalism and overblown storytelling, but it was diverting, nonetheless.

A heavy knock on the front door sounded through the house, disrupting Fenris's reading. He looked up, unsure how long he had been reading—a significant chunk of the book, to be certain. A sense of unease settled itself in the back of his mind. Hawke was too late, and would certainly not be knocking on the door.

The knock came again, and Fenris dropped the book, hurrying to the door. He flung it open, glaring at the blandly pretty face of the young Templar who stood there.

"Serah!"

"Ser Keran, is it? What business have you here at this hour?"

"The Champion …" Keran let the words trail away, his eyes darting nervously toward the shadows.

"Is not here."

"I know. She's been taken."

Cold fear swept through Fenris, freezing his very bones. "Come inside. Quickly." He closed the door behind the Templar, locking it securely. "Taken by whom?" he demanded.

"The mages. And some of the Templars. There's a group, formed by Ser Thrask. He's been teaching mages and Templars to work together, and doing it rather successfully," Keran said.

"If that is the case, why seize Hawke?"

"I'm not quite sure," Keran said, frowning. "It was Grace's idea, but I … I left the meeting before she could explain why she thought it best to kidnap the Champion. I didn't want anything to do with it—the Champion was very good to me."

"Who is Grace?"

"One of the former Starkhaven mages. The Champion tried to help them, years ago, but they were recaptured. Grace has never stopped stewing about being locked away in the Gallows." Keran swallowed. "I sometimes think she isn't quite …"

"You knew about this, and you did not think to warn us?"

"I tried!" Keran shouted at Fenris, his blue eyes bright and worried. "I said as much as I dared, when you visited the Gallows. I warned her to be on her guard."

So he had, Fenris recalled with a sinking heart. They had assumed it would be a threat against Fenris, and had laughed it off besides. He cursed their overconfidence.

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. I can try to find out, but I don't know if they'll trust me."

"Do you know how long ago?"

"Hours. This was as soon as I could get away from my assigned duties. If I'm caught here on the wrong side of the harbor Meredith may have me killed—she's never trusted me since … since those blood mages took me captive."

"Meredith does not know about this?"

"The other Templars involved covered up the mages' escape. Please, serah, let me get back. I'll send you word if I find out where they've gone."

"Do that." Fenris was already moving, brushing past the young Templar, his mind focused on the next step. Beyond that he dared not look. If Hawke was hurt—blinding white light filled his mind at the idea, and he put his hand to his head. He could not afford to think that way, not if he was going to be any help to her whatsoever. Behind him he heard the door shut as Keran left. "Bodahn! Orana!"

The servants appeared slowly, too slowly for Fenris, sleepily pulling on robes and rubbing their eyes. "Hawke is in danger. Every minute counts. Bodahn, go to the Viscount's keep, get Aveline and Donnic, then to the Chantry and get Sebastian. Tell them Hawke needs them and to meet me at the Hanged Man. Orana, remain here and be watchful for any messages that may be delivered. I shall be at the Hanged Man for now, and Corff will know where I go from there." Usually he was too uncomfortable to give orders to the servants, too aware of what they must be feeling, working for another person for their living, subservient to someone else, but this was no moment for such squeamishness. By the time they had nodded in response to his orders, he had already snatched his sword down from its pegs—just above where Hawke's belonged. How had they taken her? She was too skilled a fighter to be taken easily, which left … magic. Undoubtedly blood magic. His stomach churned at the very idea of his Evelyn …

Fenris clenched his teeth, willing the images in his head to disappear. He sprinted through the dark streets of Hightown at speeds he had not achieved since he was on the run from Danarius.  
Bursting into the Hanged Man, he ignored the startled looks he got from the few patrons still sober enough to notice something amiss, taking the stairs to the second floor in what seemed like a single giant leap. He didn't bother to knock at Varric's door.

As he expected, the dwarf was still awake, sitting in his cozy chair before the fire, scribbling his endless tales. Varric looked up in surprise as Fenris burst in. "Broody! This is a surprise. Come for your money back? No refunds on Diamondback winnings, you know that."

"Hawke has been taken by mages."

Varric got to his feet, his papers spilling forgotten to the floor. "What? When?"

"Earlier tonight. Did you see her when you returned?"

"No, the ladies were already gone. Rivaini and her cupcake went to continue their evening sampling some of Isabela's favorite bouquets at the Rose, and Aveline went home. I thought Hawke went with her."

"Apparently not. A Templar came to my door, informing me of the abduction. By a mixed group of Templars and mages, it seems."

"How nice that they've all learned to get along. Where are they?"

"He did not know."

"Let's go to the Rose, see if Rivaini knows anything. You call the others?"

"Bodahn is getting them. Varric."

"What?"

"Where is he?"

The dwarf grimaced. "No, broody. You don't want to do that."

"Hawke may be … hurt. We need him."

"To think, I've lived to see you expressing a positive emotion for Blondie." Varric lifted Bianca from her bed.

"The only positive emotion I could experience toward him would follow his demise. However, for Hawke …" Fenris's voice broke, and he looked away. "We need him."

"No, we don't. He's beyond helping Hawke now, if you could even get him to agree to come along, which I doubt. He's barely functional."

"And yet you continue to protect him."

"Not the time, elf."

"Of course not." Fenris's mind raced. They had to have a healer; the chances of Hawke having been taken unhurt were too small to risk it. Where could he procure a healer they could trust? Suddenly it came to him. "You go to the Blooming Rose; collect Isabela and the others. Bring Charade as well. Meet me on the docks in …" Hastily he calculated how long it would take him. "An hour and a half. Keep your ears open for anyone who might have seen … seen it happen." He swallowed hard, feeling his breath constrict at the idea of Hawke, helpless at the hands of unstable mages.

Varric nodded. "If they've hurt Hawke …" He patted Bianca with a savage gentleness.

"Agreed."  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
It was a much shorter run from the Hanged Man to the docks. Fenris woke the ferryman. "Five sovereigns if you take me to the Gallows. At once."

"B-but, Serah!"

"I have no time to waste!" Fenris grasped the man's shirt and hauled him up until the ferryman was standing on his tiptoes, gasping for breath. "The Champion's life may depend upon it. Move!"

The ferryman did as Fenris demanded, hurrying with shaking fingers to untie the rope that anchored the ferry to the docks, poling it with strong, swift strokes that nonetheless seemed too slow to Fenris. The elf perched on the railing of the ferry, and he leapt for the dock as soon as he thought he could reasonably manage the jump. He landed on the edge, teetering for a moment with his arms flailing, but he managed to avoid falling into the water and sprinted across the cobblestones toward the Gallows.

Two sentries stood guard outside the Knight-Captain's office.

"Oy, you, you can't be here at this hour!" one of them said loudly as Fenris approached.

"It is a matter of Kirkwall security. Mages from Ferelden have arrived on a ship, bent on conquering the city. You should hurry to procure reinforcements," Fenris said, amazed at how easily the lie sprang to his lips. 

Apparently he'd learned more from Varric and Isabela than how to cheat at cards.

The two helmeted heads swiveled to look at each other, then back at him. "How do you know?" the second one asked.

"I saw it."

His blunt delivery seemed to convince them. "You go roust the Knight-Captain, I'll round up the other Templars," the first one said to the second.

"I would be happy to awaken the Knight-Captain for you, freeing you to prepare for the invasion," Fenris offered.

"Oh. Right. Yeah, that'd help," said the second. The two of them took off at a jog, the fastest they could move in the heavy, restrictive Templar armor, for the doors to the barracks. Fenris let himself into the office, making his way through the darkened room to the inner bedroom where the Knight-Captain slept.

"Knight-Captain. Cullen!" he said urgently, shaking the man's shoulders.

Cullen sat bolt upright on the narrow bed. "Back, demon!" he shouted, his hand going straight for Fenris's throat. He must have seen the markings shining in the dark, because his hand halted in midair. "Serah Fenris? What are you doing here?"

"I require your assistance. At once. Hawke is … Hawke has been taken by a cabal of mages and Templars working together, under the leadership of the Starkhaven mage Grace."

"Grace!" Cullen growled, throwing his blanket off and reaching for the armor that lay on a table next to the bed. "We should have made her Tranquil as soon as she came in."

Privately, Fenris thought Hawke should just have killed the mage at the start.

"Where have they gone?" Cullen asked, hastily drawing on pieces of armor.

"I do not know; I had hoped you might have some idea."

Cullen laughed without humor. "As if any member of that group would have spoken to me."

"You do not know this Grace, or Ser Thrask, who I am told has put this assemblage together, well enough to hazard a suspicion?"

"No, unfortunately," Cullen said. "Drawback to being in charge—no one trusts me. As they shouldn't." He paused in the act of picking up his gauntlets. "But why are you here awakening me, of all people? Surely you have Hawke's team assembled to search for her, and you can't have really thought I would know where they went."

"I need Bethany," Fenris said. "Our … healer … has disappeared, and … If Hawke is hurt … I need Bethany," he said again.

"You know I cannot allow such a thing."

"What has Hawke not done for this city? She has fought for Kirkwall time and again, and had her entire family taken from her for her pains. Kirkwall owes her this, and far more!"

"Do you know what Meredith would do if she found out?"

"Meredith!" Fenris spat. "I am sick of hearing the name. Meredith is nothing but a frightening story; she wields no actual power. Look around—Kirkwall is filled to the brim with apostates and escaped mages. Most of whom Hawke has dealt with," he added. "At this very moment, a group of mages and Templars have escaped from this prison under Meredith's very nose, completely unknown to her. Meredith! She should be deposed for her incompetence, not for her alleged despotism."

Cullen stared at him, open-mouthed. "I am pleased the Champion has found herself a man of sense and understanding," he said at last. "I have long wondered why Kirkwall continues to cower under Meredith's shadow when in truth she does little but lock herself in her office and talk to some heathen idol."

"Idol?" The hackles rose on the back of Fenris's neck. "Remind me to speak of this with you later; I may know something about that idol."

"Indeed." Cullen bit his lip, frowning thoughtfully. "It may be tricky, but I think … as long as I can avoid Orsino, I should be able to get Bethany for you."

"Why would you need to avoid Orsino?"

"He doesn't trust me. And he is particularly, er, protective of Bethany."

"Yes, I am aware."

Cullen nodded. "Stay here. I will return as soon as I can."

The moments ticked by so slowly Fenris was certain he could count each beat of his heart. He despised this inactivity, allowing time—Hawke's time—to slip through his fingers while he waited.

At last the door opened. "Serah?" Cullen whispered.

Fenris was at the door almost before the whispered sound had died away. "Do you have her?"

"Yes. Let's go."

"Are you accompanying us?" Fenris looked at Cullen in surprise.

"I am. I can't let you take a mage unaccompanied—any untoward occurrences would be on my head. Besides, I have a certain regard for the Champion."

"Very well, then." Over Cullen's shoulder, Fenris saw Bethany, her eyes wide.

"Fenris, is this true? Is my sister in danger?"

"Yes. Come quickly—there is time enough to explain on the ferry."

"Follow me, then," Cullen said. "I can get us there without anyone interfering."

He led them down a hallway, across a courtyard, and through a rickety gate in a side wall. The ferryman looked up respectfully as Cullen approached. "Knight-Captain, serah! I'm sorry if I—"

"Not to worry." Cullen cut the man's protests off with a wave of his hand. "Across the harbor, and quickly."

Fenris filled Bethany in on the night's events as the ferry moved across the water—at a far more rapid clip than it had taken the other direction, he noted.

Varric had the others waiting near the ferry's dock. "Thought that might be where you'd gone," he said to Fenris. "Hello, Sunshine."

"Varric. So good to see you! … Under other circumstances, anyway."

"Knight-Captain, it's good of you to come," Aveline said.

Cullen ducked his head uncomfortably.

"Do we know where they took Evelyn?" Charade asked.

Fenris shook his head, his heart so firmly lodged in his throat that he was practically choking on it.

"I remember Grace," Varric said. "Hated the Starkhaven tower, probably hated the Gallows."

"Oh, yes," Bethany confirmed.

"Seems to me Grace wouldn't want to be cooped up in another building, not even with a hostage," Varric continued.

"She was always talking about how much she wanted to get free and just walk on the beach," Bethany said. "Do you think she took Evelyn somewhere along the Wounded Coast?"

All eyes turned to Isabela, who spent a fair amount of time wandering the coast. The pirate nodded. "I know where I'd go, if I were hoping to hide a hostage outside the city."

Fenris nodded. "Lead us there quickly."

Isabela squeezed his arm. "We're going to get her back."

She led the group of them out of the city gates and along a meandering set of pathways leading through the rocks and down to the beach. Dawn was breaking as Isabela halted at the top of a path that led down to a raised promontory. Fenris's keen ears caught the sound of voices and he caught her arm, holding his finger to his lips, straining to hear the words.

" … if you didn't want to hurt me, why do I feel like I've been run over by a herd of halla?"

Hawke was alive! She sounded weak, and coughed several times in the midst of the sentence, but she was alive.

A man's voice answered her. "We merely wanted your support against Meredith. How were we to know you would fight so furiously? We had to subdue you."

"Couldn't you have … simply asked?" Hawke coughed again, a deep, wet sound that filled Fenris with alarm.

Turning to the others, Fenris pointed silently at Charade and Sebastian, then waved his hand in the direction of the bluffs at the top of the promontory. Both archers nodded, moving silently into the brush. Fenris tapped Isabela on the shoulder, making a sweeping motion to encompass the rocks and weeds surrounding them, then sliding a hand across his throat in the universal assassination symbol. Isabela nodded, a wide and disturbing grin crossing her face, before disappearing into the weeds. Fenris pointed at Bethany and held his hand up. She opened her mouth to protest, but then nodded, her face pale with concern. Fenris motioned to   
Donnic to watch Bethany, and to Varric, Aveline, and Cullen to accompany him.

Fenris moved slowly down the path, wincing at every rattle and clank of Cullen and Aveline's armor.

" … Someone's coming!" The male voice sounded alarmed.

"Good. Let's finish this." It was a woman's voice, silbilant as a snake's hiss.

"Grace, this isn't what we agreed," the man said sternly.

The woman laughed. "It isn't what you agreed, Thrask. I never had any intention of letting her live. Some Champion! Goes around locking people up."

"I let you go free …" Hawke protested. She sounded weaker, and alarm raced hot through Fenris's veins. The lyrium was sparking of its own volition along his arms. Cullen gave him an alarmed glance, and Aveline put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Free!" Grace snorted. "We were caught within the day, as you intended, you lying bitch!"

"I never meant …" Hawke's voice trailed off in a series of hacking coughs.

Fenris cried out, a mixture of anger and fear exploding inside him. He was hardly aware of the momentum that propelled him forward in a dead run. He burst into the camp before the mages and Templars could prepare. "Let her go!"

A woman in purple robes turned, raising a hand and shooting a crackling stab of energy at him. Fenris ducked the bolt.

"Stay back, Grace!" Thrask shouted. "We're not here to hurt anyone."

"You may not be." She raised her staff.

Hawke moved feebly on the ground just behind Grace, her arms and legs securely chained. Fenris could see a froth of blood bubbling at her lips. She coughed again as he watched, her body doubled up, her breath coming in a pained wheeze. Evelyn's face was marked with bruises—her captors had not been gentle. Her eyes met his, and a tear rolled down her cheek as she mouthed his name. At the back of the group of assembled Templars and mages, he saw a mage drop. Isabela's work, no doubt.

Cullen's longer legs brought him into the clearing behind Fenris. "Andraste save us!" he exclaimed when he saw Hawke.

Thrask blanched, taking a step back. "Knight-Captain!"

Fenris's eyes met Grace's. "If my wife dies, I will follow you into the Fade itself and make you long for oblivion before I am finished with you." He didn't notice the startled look Cullen gave him, or, indeed, the word he had used.

"You can try, elf."

Aveline had caught up now, and she saw Hawke. "Son of a bitch!" She moved forward toward her friend.

"Not another step!" Grace said. "I've waited a long time for this. You people killed the best man I ever knew, but I learned everything he had to teach. And more, since he died." Her mouth twisted in an unpleasant smile. "You have no idea what lessons can be found within the Gallows, all of you who are so eager to see us locked up there." She lifted a sword, the early morning sun glinting off it. Fenris blanched—he knew that blade almost as well as he knew his own, and had never thought to see it in anyone's hands but Hawke's. "You will all feel my vengeance!" With a swift movement, Grace thrust the sword into Hawke's stomach, raising her arms to draw the blood out of the fallen Champion before anyone could move to stop her. Her body began to change, developing the signature lumpy contours of an abomination.

"NO!" Fenris leaped forward toward Hawke and the giant blade. At the same instant, Aveline turned and sprinted back toward where they had left Bethany.

Fenris slammed at full force into a shield one of the mages was holding around Hawke. He beat at the shield with his fists, even the pulsing lyrium in his system unable to breach the invisible wall keeping him from Evelyn's side. The other mages and Templars were in motion, drawing swords and staves. Cullen closed his eyes for a brief second, centering himself, then raised his arms, pushing the air forward in front of him. The shield dropped and Fenris staggered toward Evelyn, falling to his knees next to her. Her face was contorted in pain. Cullen's cleanse had halted Grace's blood ritual, but Hawke's blood continued to well from the wound, bubbling around the edges of the sword.

In his all-encompassing fear for Evelyn, Fenris had completely lost track of the progress of the battle. Above the clash of swords and the shouts of mages flinging spells about, he heard Bianca's familiar voice strike a single sharp note, and he turned to look at the dwarf. Varric's face was set and hard with a depth of anger Fenris had never seen in him before. The steel quarrel embedded itself in the eye of the abomination who had been Grace. Fenris could see several mages down with arrows sticking out of them, and Isabela moved like a blur, finding the chinks in the Templars' armor. Cullen had closed with another Templar. The mages and Templars themselves were turning on each other now, as well, their fragile bond of trust fallen to pieces with Grace's betrayal.

Ser Thrask staggered backward, looking around him in horror. "This isn't the way! This was never the way. Stop this at once!" But no one listened to him, and an arrow found his throat, silencing his cause for good. Soon nothing but bodies in the sand remained of the mage and Templar accord Ser Thrask had spent so many years building.

Fenris crouched over Evelyn, looking into her face, willing her eyes to open. "Evelyn!" He traced the side of her face.

There was no response. Her breathing was harsh and uneven, her face waxy and pale.

"Sister!" Bethany had her skirts bunched up around her thighs, running across the sand. She skidded to a halt next to Evelyn, putting one hand on her sister's stomach, next to the blade. Her face tightened. "Hold her still," she said to Fenris. Blue light began to gleam at Bethany's fingertips as she probed her sister's abdomen. The light brightened and faded again several times before Bethany looked at Aveline. "Take the blade out." The mage put her hands on either side of the sword, and the light flared from them as Aveline pulled the blade free. Blood spurted from the wound, but slowed as Bethany poured magic into it. Her teeth were bared in a determined snarl.

Bethany's body trembled with the strain, and she cried out, sitting back on her heels. "I can't! … Ah …" She closed her eyes, breathing heavily. "I don't have anything left." She opened them, still panting, and glanced nervously at Cullen before looking around at the others. "Anyone have a … lyrium potion?"

No one did, everyone looking around helplessly. Bethany's eyes were shadowed and worried. "She's not going to make it back to Kirkwall. Not without …" She cast another anxious glance up at Cullen. "Maybe …" he began, her face twisting.

Fenris's voice cut off whatever she had been going to say. He held his arm out. "How much do you require?"

"How much?" She frowned at him in confusion, then glanced down at the lyrium in his arm, still glowing. "Oh. Uh … I'm not sure." She reached out, touching his arm gingerly, as though the lyrium might bite her. "I can't use it this way, Fenris."

"So I assumed." He looked up, meeting Isabela's eyes. "My friend, will you assist me?"

Isabela nodded, drawing her dagger. She knelt next to him, and Fenris closed his eyes, feeling all over again the pain of receiving the markings. The tip of the dagger felt white-hot as it dug into the lines of lyrium along his outer arm.

A mixture of blood and lyrium began to ooze from the wound Isabela was creating, her hands steady and sure.

"You're very good at that, Rivaini," Varric remarked.

"Try getting a splinter out of a sailor's tar-covered fingers," she said, not taking her eyes off her work. "Big babies, sailors. They hate splinters."

Bethany swallowed, looking nauseous. "You want me to … drink … that?"

"That … looks very much like blood magic," Cullen said, stepping forward.

It did. Fenris looked at the disturbing substance coming from his body, knowing that nothing but Evelyn's life could have driven him to this extremity.

Varric emptied the contents of a hip flask onto the ground, handing it to Isabela. "Hanged Man's finest," he said. "Should improve the flavor."

"I shouldn't allow this," Cullen said.

Bethany shook her head, watching as Isabela squeezed the the liquid, drop by painful drop, into the flask. "I don't know if I can drink that."

Fenris trembled with the overwhelming emotions surging within him. Fear for Hawke's life; his deeply ingrained distrust of magic, particularly that which flowed from the power of blood; and the overpowering memory of the excruciating pain he had endured when the markings were created. Even for Evelyn, could he really do this? He fought to keep from pulling his arm out of Isabela's grasp. The pirate held his arm steadily but firmly, her head bent over her task.

"It is the Maker's gift," Sebastian said. "Did I not tell you, Fenris, that the Maker had plans for you? He put you here, today, with this power flowing in your veins, to save Hawke's life."

Cullen nodded. "That makes a certain amount of sense. And the blood isn't the power. I can smell that lyrium—it's very pure."

Bethany shuddered. "I don't think I have any choice."

"No," Varric said. "You don't."

Fenris looked up at Sebastian in gratitude, feeling the peace of Sebastian's surety quieting the panic that was rising in him. "Perhaps you are right. Thank you, Sebastian."

The Prince smiled. "Any time, my friend."

"You boys are so adorable," Isabela murmured, squeezing a bit more of the mixture into the flask. She held the results out to Bethany. "Think this is enough?"

Bethany peered inside, shrugging. "Maybe?" She tipped it back and drank, grimacing as the contents flowed slowly into her mouth. "Salty."

They all watched eagerly, waiting to see if it had worked. Bethany closed her eyes, taking several deep breaths. When she opened them, her pupils were very small. She bent forward, her fingers glowing, and applied them again to Hawke's abdomen.

"It worked," Varric sighed.

After a few minutes of Bethany's efforts, Hawke began to grow restless. "Hold her!" Bethany snapped.

Aveline sat down near Hawke's head, pinning Hawke's shoulders to the ground with her big, capable hands. Fenris reached with his good hand for one of Hawke's, gripping it tightly.

Hawke moaned in pain, trying to shift position, her eyelids fluttering. At last they opened fully, meeting Fenris's. Her lips formed his name. Fenris lifted her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. Evelyn's other hand moved toward her abdomen.

"Don't move, sister," Bethany said.

"B-Bethany?"

"You'll be fine, just let me work. It's a good thing they gave me healing lessons in the Gallows." Bethany probed along the line of Hawke's ribs, and Hawke winced. "Yes, that one's broken. Let's see what we can do there. You lie still."

"You … love telling me … what to do."

"Yes, I do." Bethany smiled, glancing over at Fenris. "Talk to her, will you? I need to concentrate."

"Actually, I have a question, sweet thing," Isabela said.

"Isabela?" Hawke tried to crane her neck, and Aveline pressed her shoulders more firmly against the sand.

"Hold still, you stubborn woman."

"Aveline." Hawke smiled up at her friend. "Another bossy woman. And you all wonder why I like being in charge." She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. Fenris could barely hear the scraping noise inside her as the broken ends of her rib aligned themselves. She gasped slightly as the sound stopped, before searching for Isabela's face with her eyes. "You had a question?"

"Lanky and smouldering here referred to you as his wife earlier. Just wondered if the two of you got hitched and didn't tell the rest of us. Because there would be consequences."

"I wondered about that, too," Aveline said.

"He did?" Hawke asked, looking back up into Fenris's face.

"I did?" he echoed. "I was not aware of having said such a thing."

"You called me your wife?" Evelyn's eyes filled with tears.

The presence of the others, which ordinarily would have created an inability to speak of these matters in Fenris, didn't seem to matter right now. "I admit, I do think of you as such, although I would not have deliberately chosen that word." He smiled at her. "Did I not promise to remain at your side as long as I live, and beyond?"

"You did." An answering smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"And did you not promise never to let anything part us again?"

"I did."

Fenris shrugged. "I do not need a Revered Mother to explain to me the meaning of such a vow."

"But my friend," Sebastian sputtered, horrified, "you can't be married without a Chantry. Or a ceremony. Or …"

"Actually, they can." Varric was grinning. He picked up Hawke's other hand and squeezed it. "It so happens that I am a fully authorized marryer of people."

"That's impossible," Sebastian said.

"Not in Nevarra, my friend," Varric said. "I filled out some papers, they sent me a certificate, and here I am. As a matter of fact, that reminds me of a story—I was pinned down by whole troop of mercenaries, just me and Bianca. Thought I'd never get past them, but …"

"Varric!" Aveline snapped impatiently. "Get on with it."

"Right. Sorry." Varric raised his eyebrows, looking at Hawke. "What do you say? Shall I say a few words and make it all nice and official?"

"That's one way to keep her mind off whatever Bethany's doing," Isabela said.

"You just don't want to have to wear a bridesmaid's dress that'll actually cover your ass, whore," Aveline said.

"Jealous, my flat-bottomed friend?"

"Check your eyes, Isabela," Donnic said, winking at the pirate. "Hardly flat."

"Oh-ho!" Isabela clearly had another barb ready to let fly, but Fenris cut in.

"You were saying, Varric?"

"I was waiting for Hawke."

"I am willing if you are," Fenris said softly, kissing Evelyn's fingers.

"I thought you'd never—Maker's breath, Bethany, that hurts!"

"Sorry, sister."

"So that was a yes, then, Hawke?"

"It was."

"Give me a moment." Varric walked off, muttering to himself.

"Fenris, are you certain you don't want to wait and have this in the Chantry?" Sebastian asked.

"You can sing the Chant for us later, my friend. That will be good enough for me."

"I'm all set." Varric said. He had a wicked gleam in his eye that made Fenris suddenly uneasy. "Are the bride and groom ready?"

"Close enough," Hawke said. "Ouch, Bethany."

"Very well." Varric cleared his throat ostentatiously. "Evelyn Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, do you promise to put up with this elf's incessant brooding, keep him out of the hands of slavers, and attempt to make him socially acceptable as long as you both shall live?"

"Those aren't the words!" Sebastian said indignantly.

"They're the ones that count," Varric said. "Hawke, do you so promise?"

"I do."

"And you, Fenris, former slave of Tevinter, citizen of Kirkwall, do you promise to try to keep this stubborn woman out of trouble, make her happy whenever possible, and never, ever walk out on her again, because I'll be damned if I'm going to put up with three more years of her whining?"

Evelyn coughed. "Stop that, Varric. It hurts to laugh."

"Then don't. I was completely serious. Do you, elf?"

"I do."

"Then, by the power vested in me by the loosely governed nation of Nevarra, I am happy to pronounce you husband and wife."

"Congratulations, cousin," Charade said. "Or should I say, cousins?"

"Your turn next, Isabela," Hawke said. "You could make an honest woman of Charade and join the family."

Isabela choked, and everyone else laughed. Including Charade, Fenris noticed.

Bethany sat back on her heels. "I think you're able to go back to Kirkwall now, sister. You'll need more healing of the more minor injuries, but the life-threatening ones have been taken care of." She smiled. "I'm afraid the honeymoon will have to wait. Congratulations." She glanced at Fenris and then looked away.

"I'll have to take Bethany back to the Gallows now," Cullen said. He looked around in dismay. "We'll have a lot of work to do to clean this up, both here and back there. This level of betrayal and secrecy …" He shook his head.

Aveline and Fenris helped Hawke to her feet. "Thank you for coming, Cullen. I appreciate it. And you, Bethany," she said.

"Of course, sister." The two women looked at each other, unsure what else to say. "Under the circumstances, I think it prudent not to hug you," Bethany said. "Perhaps you … and your husband … can come to the Gallows again sometime."

"That sounds nice," Hawke said.

There was a certain sigh of relief when Bethany and Cullen were on their way back and it was just their little family again.

"Sebastian, I believe you promised to sing the Chant for us."

"Shall I, then? If I start now, I might be a third of the way through by the time Hawke limps all the way back to Kirkwall."

"No!" Isabela and Varric said together.

"Suit yourselves," Sebastian said. "I'm told I have a very nice voice."

Slowly, the group of them made their way back to Kirkwall, protectively clustered around Hawke.


	44. Boom

"You're sure I can't get up yet?" Hawke fidgeted in bed. It was a comfortable bed, but she'd been stuck in it for almost a week, allowed out by her over-solicitous husband only to attend to the necessities of personal hygiene.

"How are you feeling?" Fenris bent over her, anxiously looking into her eyes. He put his hand on her forehead.

"Much, much better." She hooked a finger over the top of his breastplate, pulling him toward her. "So much better that I think I'll have to get up … unless you can think of something more interesting for me to do in bed than sleep." They had yet to consummate their surprise marriage—Fenris had been too concerned about her health to risk the activity.

"Hawke, do you think—" he began huskily, but the words were cut off as she kissed him with a thoroughness that made it clear thinking was no part of her plan. "Well," he said, pulling back from her and beginning on the buckles of his armor, "when you put it that way."

Evelyn sat back against the headboard, watching him disrobe. She still remembered his mute misery at the idea of undressing in front of her, the first time they had been alone in this room. Now he took his clothes off with no shame, his eyes steady on hers. Tossing aside the covers, she wriggled gingerly out of her nightgown, expecting to be sore, and was pleasantly surprised when there were no twinges from the site of her belly wound or any of the injuries from the beating the Templars had given her.

Fenris came toward her as she sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes hot and glowing green as they surveyed her body. Evelyn found herself arching into his gaze, practically feeling it warming her flesh. Hungry for the taste of him, she reached out, pulling at him closer until she could run her tongue over the defined muscles of his abdomen. The tang of the lyrium buzzed pleasantly as her mouth moved over his markings. Fenris's deepened breathing encouraged her, and she allowed her tongue to trail lower until she was licking down the length of him, taking him into her mouth. His hands clasped her head, holding on as she sucked.

At last, with a deep growl, he pushed her back. Evelyn felt a rush of satisfaction at the urgency with which his body covered hers. Fenris gathered her into his arms so that their bodies were pressed firmly together, kissing her hard. Evelyn responded with a greedy eagerness of her own. Their hands moved over each other, caressing and exploring and rediscovering each sensitive area. At last, Evelyn couldn't take it any longer, feeling an aching emptiness inside her. Fenris seemed to feel the same, holding himself poised above her on trembling arms while she guided him to her core, wrapping her legs around his hips to hold him against her. They moved together, too excited to take it slowly. Each deep thrust pushed Evelyn closer to the edge, and she tangled her hands in his hair, urging him on.

"Mine," she growled. "Mine _always_."

Her words were all he needed. With a final snap of his hips Fenris cried out against her, shuddering in the intensity of his release, and Evelyn closed her eyes, her own climax overtaking her with a rush that had her fingers and toes tingling as all the blood rushed to her center.

They shifted slowly, cleaning themselves and straightening the covers before curling up together. After a few moments of silence, Fenris cleared his throat. "I was not aware it mattered so much to you." Evelyn pulled her head out of the crook of his shoulder to look at him inquiringly. "The formality of a ceremony."

"I hadn't really thought about it, but it does make a difference. The idea of making promises in front of those we care about … I don't know. I never had much use for all the impersonal fluffiness of Chantry ceremonies, but this one … Varric, you know."

"Yes," Fenris said in a tone of patient suffering, but Evelyn knew he and the dwarf held a deep mutual respect for one another, if not a genuine affection. He found her hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing her fingers. "It is customary to procure rings, I believe. Shall we do so?"

"That sounds good." While she'd never thought about it before, Evelyn had to admit she'd like to see Fenris wearing her ring, and to wear his in return. "Thank you for everything you did to save me."

Fenris chuckled. "In comparison with the many times you have saved me, what I did was very little." His smile faded, then, and he tipped her chin up with one finger, looking seriously into her eyes. "When I thought that you might be—that I might be too late …" He shook his head. "Promise me you won't die. I don't think I could bear to live without you."

She had a sudden image of Fenris trying to save her life at the cost of his own, in some future battle, and she pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling before she answered him. "I don't make that promise unless you do."

"Nothing will ever keep me from you." He kissed her hard, the heat and strength of his body reassuring her.

There was a hesitant knock at the door, preventing the exchange of promises from being confirmed physically. "Yes?" Hawke asked, more than a touch testily.

"Ah … messere, there's a message from the Knight-Commander. She's, ah, asking for your presence at the Gallows. Immediately."

Hawke sighed. "No rest for the wicked."

"I thought you were anxious to get out of bed," Fenris teased.

"That was when I was alone in it." She pushed the covers off and got up. It felt strange putting her armor on—she hadn't worn it in a week.

"You are certain you're ready for this?" Fenris began gathering his scattered clothing and putting it on. "I would be happy to express your regrets to the Knight-Commander."

"I'm sure you would, along with some pithy comments on how much better she could be controlling the mages." Evelyn grinned, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "I'm sure this is just another boring meeting; you don't even have to come along if you don't want to."

He didn't bother to answer that one, merely raised his eyebrows to convey how long it would be before he felt comfortable letting her out of his sight again. Evelyn sighed. She appreciated how worried he must have been, but one little kidnapping hardly made her a helpless child.

Varric was lounging on the edge of the fountain in Hawke's courtyard.

She grinned down at him. "Couldn't stand to be without me any longer?"

"Hawke, do you remember the last time we went a week without seeing each other?" She frowned thoughtfully, and he nodded. "Exactly. Me, neither. If Broody hasn't already made it clear to you, no more getting kidnapped."

"I seem to recall him mentioning something like that, a few dozen times."

Varric fell in with them as they headed down the steps into Lowtown.

A shadow shifted when they reached the bottom of the stairs, and Hawke rolled her eyes. "Come out, Isabela."

The pirate appeared, looking shame-faced, and Charade came from another dim corner. "Cousin! Fancy meeting you here."

"Maker," Hawke snapped. "You'd think I was made of paper, the way you people are acting."

"We just don't want to miss the excitement, next time you're attacked," Isabela said, her eyes twinkling. "Lanky and smoldering here is no fun when he's scared out of his mind."

Fenris's jaw tightened and he cast an annoyed glance at Isabela, who just laughed.

"Well, I guess Meredith's getting more than she bargained for today," Hawke said, shaking her head.

When they reached the docks, Aveline was leaning on a piling with her arms crossed, scowling. Donnic stood next to her, talking rapidly. Aveline shook her head.

"What's this? You, too?" Hawke said as she came in earshot.

"Meredith!" Aveline snapped. "That woman has no jurisdiction over the civil authorities, but she sends me this summons and expects me just to jump over there." She held up a piece of parchment with Meredith's dark slashing scrawl on it.

"Which you did," Donnic reminded her gently.

"Only to tell her that I'm not going to."

"Makes perfect sense," Varric muttered, and Hawke grinned at him.

"In Aveline-world it does," she said.

"I heard that," Aveline said, but her frown faded as she looked Hawke over. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Perfectly well enough for one of Meredith's paranoia fests."

The ferryman called to them all to get aboard. As the others climbed on, Hawke looked around, scanning the area. "Sebastian's not coming along? I thought I was getting the full escort."

"He's sticking to the Grand Cleric's side, waiting for the Divine to get off her bejeweled ass and decide what to do about the mage situation," Varric said. "He told me he'd been by to check on you; said he brought cookies."

"He did?" Hawke turned to Fenris, who actually looked shame-faced. "Why did I never hear about that?"

"They … ah … they were Starkhaven shortbread. I … uh … tasted one—to be certain it was safe …" The tips of his ears were bright red, and Isabela burst out laughing and clapped him on the back.

"You're not the first to be seduced by Starkhaven shortbread," she said with a broad wink.

"You owe me cookies," Hawke said to Fenris as she stepped aboard the ferry.

The jokes faded into silence as the ferry crossed the harbor and the Gallows loomed above them. Despite their light-heartedness, Hawke knew the current state of affairs wasn't going to last. Meredith was increasingly paranoid and erratic; Orsino strained to the breaking point; Elthina either unwilling or unable to effect any change in the situation. And she couldn't forget Anders, loose somewhere in Kirkwall spinning his own conspiracy theories. Too bad they couldn't lock Anders and Meredith in a room together and let them fight it out, she thought.

The ferry scraped the edge of the dock and they all climbed out. To Hawke's surprise, Meredith and Cullen were standing in the middle of the dock area. Orsino was there, as well, and Bethany, and a contingent of Templars.

Orsino was spitting mad, shouting at Meredith at the top of his lungs, his fists clenched at his sides. "You cannot do this! This so-called threat exists only in your twisted mind, and you cannot be allowed to continue unfettered!"

"Be careful, Orsino," Meredith said. "That sounds very much like a threat. Could it be that when I look for evidence of blood magic, I might find it closer to you than you would like?" Her cold blue gaze flickered to Bethany and then back to Orsino, who flinched.

Hawke felt sick. Bethany, dabble in blood magic? Could that be true?

Bethany's face flushed with anger. "You have no right to say that!"

"Did I say I meant you?" Meredith asked, a secretive little smile playing over her face.

"Hawke," Fenris said quietly. She followed the line of his gaze to the new sword Meredith was wearing. It sparkled in the sun.

"Is that lyrium?"

He nodded. "Cullen mentioned that she talked to a 'heathen idol'. That could explain a great deal, don't you think?"

"Yes, it could. _Venhedis_! That's just what we need, Meredith high on Bartrand's little toy. See if you can take a look at that sword without being too obvious about it," she said. Fenris nodded, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly at her use of his favorite expression.

"Shit," Varric said softly, having overheard the exchange. "No wonder I could never find the buyer. I wish Bartrand was here so I could kill him again," he growled, his fists clenching.

They were closing in on the tense little knot of people. Orsino greeted Hawke with relief. "Champion! Tell this madwoman that there are no blood mages in Kirkwall's Circle!"

"Don't waste your breath, Champion," Meredith said. "I have all the proof I need." She looked at Hawke and then at Aveline, ignoring the rest of the group. "I called the two of you here to bear witness to these blood mages' depredations. We will coddle them no further, and we will stand together against them!"

"What's happened here?" Hawke asked. "I'm sorry, I've been out of action the last few days."

"Because of Thrask and his cadre of blood mages," Meredith said. "So I heard. You must agree with me, Champion, that this has gone too far. Something must be done!"

"Seems to me that Thrask and his people are all dead."

"Leaving who knows how many infected mages behind them. You've seen them yourselves, heard the lies they tell in their blind, obsessed search for power. No!" Meredith chopped the air with a gauntleted hand. "I will root this evil out from the inside."

"There is no evil!" Orsino was practically jumping up and down in his rage. "The only blind, obsessed search for power here is yours. All we want is to be ruled fairly, if we must be ruled."

"If you must be ruled?" Cullen spoke for the first time. "If you had seen what I have seen—"

"Oh, not the Ferelden Circle again," Orsino snapped impatiently. "One mage goes berserk, and we all have to hear about it for a decade."

"It wasn't just one mage!" Cullen shouted, but Meredith held her hand up.

"Let it go, Knight-Captain. Orsino cannot stop me from searching the Gallows, and he knows it. All this is so much bluster. He can't back it up; he has no power."

"He doesn't, but he's not the only mage in Kirkwall." The voice was familiar, if strained and hoarse. Anders was standing on the docks, dripping wet, looking thin and haggard.

"Blondie!" Varric moved toward his friend, but Anders shook his head.

"The time has come for the mages of Kirkwall to stop letting you stomp on them with your big metal boots," he said to Meredith. "Orsino may be too cozy in his book-lined tower room to bother defending his people, but others of us aren't so comfortable."

"See here!" Orsino shouted. Bethany put her hand on his arm.

"Let's hear what he has to say." Her gaze was on Anders, and she didn't see the way Orsino's eyes narrowed as he looked at her.

"You are a dead man, mage," Meredith said.

"Maybe." Anders nodded. He looked smug, Hawke thought with alarm. "But I won't be the only one." He glanced up at the sun and a smile spread across his face.

"Anders, what have you done?" Hawke asked, moving toward him.

"What no one else had the courage to do. After today, there can be no turning back." His eyes were fastened on the spire of the Chantry, far across the harbor.

And then, where the spire had been, a column of red light and smoke suddenly shot up into the sky. After several moments, a rolling, sonorous boom thundered past them. They could discern flying pieces of rubble within the cloud of dust that wreathed Hightown.

"Maker's breath," Donnic said softly.

"What in the Void was that?" Aveline snapped.

"Maker, Anders … where did that come from?" Hawke asked.

"The Chantry," Fenris said. "He has destroyed the Chantry." His tone was grief-stricken, and Evelyn looked at him in surprise. She'd known Fenris was thinking more about the Chantry's teaching, spending more time listening to the Sisters sing the Chant, but she wouldn't have expected—

And then it hit her. "Sebastian." She grasped Anders by the upper arms, shaking him violently. "Sebastian would have been in there, at Elthina's side. You killed him!"

The dark eyes in Anders's hollow, pale face might easily have belonged to a stranger. "There is no one and nothing I would not sacrifice to see mages go free."

In Kirkwall, dust and smoke and rubble filled the air, and Hawke didn't have to have Fenris's ears to hear the cries of the wounded and the dying.


	45. City on Fire

Hawke stared into Anders's cold brown eyes, like chips of rock, for a few moments before her hands fell away from his arms, and she turned from him in shock. She'd known, of course, that Justice had all but taken over the man she'd once known, but that it had gone so far that he could contemplate the death of a man he had once called friend with no sign of remorse—She pictured Sebastian's bright blue eyes and gentle smile, and it was all she could do to hold back the torrent of tears.

" _Sicari_!*" Fenris hissed the word, and Hawke could practically feel the electricity that emanated from him, the lyrium markings glowing hot along his skin. He pushed past her, gripping Anders by the throat, squeezing. "Murderer!"

Anders hadn't moved, and he made no effort to struggle. He looked at Fenris calmly, with a gleam of smug satisfaction in his eyes, the first emotion Hawke had seen in their depths since he pulled himself out of the harbor. "Go ahead," Anders wheezed, getting the words past Fenris's restrictive grip on his throat with difficulty. "Do it. My name will be on the lips of every mage in Thedas for generations to come. My manifesto will make it clear what I have done, and why." He smiled. "Do it!"

His fist poised and pulsing with energy, ready to plunge into Anders's chest cavity, Fenris trembled. His other hand tightened and relaxed its grip on Anders's throat spasmodically. "Venhedis!" he snarled at last, shoving Anders away from him so that the mage stumbled and fell onto the stones. "I will not make you a martyr."

There was a silence then, as Anders looked up at Fenris. Blank surprise and an almost childlike disappointment were written on the mage's face.

Finally Meredith spoke, her crisp tones breaking the spell and making the unthinkable suddenly real. "Champion, this man is your companion. You will need to decide what is to be done with him."

Hawke nodded, accepting the responsibility and the culpability Meredith was implying. She looked around at the others. Fenris's eyes were dark with grief as he stared across the water toward the space where the Chantry had been. Aveline's lips were trembling with anger and sorrow, but her hand was gentle on Donnic's shoulder as her husband struggled to master his shock. Isabela swiped the back of her hand across her eyes, which glittered with the first tears Hawke had ever seen the pirate shed. Varric's face hurt the most to look at. The dwarf's eyes were flat and lifeless as he stared at Anders, and Hawke thought she could understand the depth of the betrayal Varric must feel. He had championed Anders's cause long after everyone else had given up on the mage.

"Varric?" Hawke asked. "What do you think?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Swallowing a few times, he finally managed a rusty squeak. "I think … I think I'm sick of mages and Templars." He turned away, running a hand over Bianca's familiar form.

"Well, Champion?" Meredith asked.

Hawke searched her mind for the worst punishment she could think of. "Make him Tranquil." Her voice was hard, and it broke through Anders's detachment and his bewilderment at the collapse of his careful plans to be killed.

"Tranquil?" he gasped. "You can't!"

"She can't, but we can," Cullen said. "With pleasure."

"No!" Bethany shouted.

Orsino glanced at her in annoyance, and Hawke felt a rush of disappointment. After all this time, did her sister still hold feelings for this broken man?

Aveline said, "Bethany, he has to be punished."

"But not like that!" Bethany turned to her sister beseechingly. "Don't you see, if he's Tranquil he'll have no feelings. How will he ever understand what he did? You'll be letting him off too easy."

All eyes turned to Bethany in surprise, but she didn't see them. She was looking at Anders, her face set. "You fool," she said. "Do you know what's going to happen now?"

"Mages will rise up! I'll have proven once and for all that we cannot be kept down! Surely you, of all people, understand why this was necessary," Anders said, his face shining as he gazed up at her.

Bethany shook her head. "No, it wasn't, and you haven't. You know what's really going to happen? Templars will be cracking down on mages across Thedas. Rites of Tranquility will be applied to every mage who breathes wrong, and apostates will be hunted down, captured, and killed. The life of mages in Thedas is about to become worse than your most extreme imaginings, and all because one insane mage decided he knew what was best for all of us." She was screaming at him now, her fists clenched at her sides, and Hawke, long familiar with her sister's magic, could feel the power building inside her. Bethany took a slow, careful breath, relaxing her fists with obvious effort. "Making you Tranquil would be too easy; and if Fenris or Evelyn killed you, you probably would be a martyr, your name remembered down the generations as the mage who died to set us all free. But if a mage kills you, if I kill you, mages will remember you for the traitor you are, and you can spend your eternity at the Maker's side contemplating what you've done to the very people whose cause you have pretended to espouse."

"No!" Anders scrambled to his feet. "Bethany, you don't understand." He grimaced in a hideous parody of his old charming smile, walking toward Bethany. "If we can just talk about this, surely—"

"I understand perfectly." Power was gathering at Bethany's fingertips. Evelyn glanced at Meredith and Cullen, but they were watching quietly, making no move toward Bethany, although surely they could feel the magic building in her as well as Evelyn could.

Anders backed away, staggering and pale. Whatever strength had propelled him across the harbor was waning, and his attempt to summon magic to shield himself failed. "You don't want to do this."

"No. I don't," Bethany whispered. A blue ball of light crackled in her hands, and she hurled it at Anders.

He staggered back at the impact, the ball disappearing inside his body. For a moment, nothing happened, and then he convulsed, his eyes glazing over as he fell to the ground.

"Stand back," Bethany ordered.

They all moved away from the fallen mage, and none too soon. He gasped his last breath, and as the sound of his exhalation still hung on the air, his body exploded, wet bits of what had been a man flying across the cobblestones.

Fenris's eyes met Bethany's. "You have more courage than you are given credit for."

"Not all of us are insane," she answered.

"Very neatly done, Enchanter Hawke," Meredith said. "You have more strength and sense than I have given you credit for. It is a shame you will have to share the fate of your fellow mages."

"What?" Orsino's mouth dropped open. "What do you mean?"

Meredith shook her head. "It grieves me to say it, but it appears the Kirkwall Circle has been infiltrated by blood mages and abominations."

"Infiltrated? That man was an apostate!" Orsino cried.

"Ah, but apparently he is well acquainted with a senior enchanter—one who is an intimate of the First Enchanter, no less," Meredith said, glancing slyly from Orsino to Bethany. "I think the only thing left to do is to call for the Right of Annulment."

"Knight-Commander!" Cullen protested. "The Right of Annulment is a last resort! Even in Ferelden, where the Circle was far worse off than here—"

"I believe we've all heard as much as we care to of what happened to the Circle in Ferelden, Knight-Captain," Meredith said.

"But many mages there were saved! And these mages were not even involved in this plot," Cullen argued.

"Do you think I would go to this extreme if there were any other way?" Meredith's blue eyes were genuinely sad as she turned to look at the empty space where the Chantry's spire had been. "But we can't take the chance that this … rebellion has infected the mages under our care. Enough innocents have been harmed today."

"Innocents! We're the innocents!" Orsino shouted.

Meredith ignored him. "Can I count on your assistance, Champion?"

Hawke didn't bother looking to the others. She shook her head. "No, Knight-Commander. These mages haven't done anything wrong, and I won't help you kill them for what Anders did. If anyone should be punished for letting that happen, it should be me." She ignored the murmurs of her companions around her—she knew it was the truth.

Meredith started to speak, but Orsino interrupted her, facing Hawke with his eyes shining.

"Thank you for your support, Champion! I knew you would come through for us—"

Hawke cut him off with a raised hand. "I'm not supporting you, Orsino, I'm just not going to be party to killing you all for something you didn't do."

"But, Sister!" Bethany looked at Evelyn, wide-eyed and surprised.

"I can't forget what I've seen these past ten years, Bethany. Mages have done far more damage to the population of Kirkwall than the Templars have."

"You're blaming us for what he did, too?" Orsino shouted.

"I don't blame you for Anders. But Evelina, Huon … Grace—they were all your people, Orsino. Where were you when they escaped?"

"I'm not responsible for every mage in Kirkwall! Huon and Grace were crazy. Just like Quentin."

"Quentin?" The hackles rose on the back of Hawke's neck. "I never mentioned Quentin. How do you know his name?"

"Bethany must have mentioned it," Orsino muttered, his face paling.

"Who's Quentin?" Bethany asked, and Orsino turned even whiter.

"Quentin is the mage who killed Mother," Evelyn said. "The mage who was being assisted with supplies and research materials from inside the Circle. The mage who had a note signed 'O' amongst his belongings. I guess we know now who O is, don't we, Orsino?"

"I didn't know what he was doing," Orsino said. "If I had known—"

"What would you have done? Stopped him?" Hawke took a deep breath, suddenly weary of all of it. "You supported him without knowing what he was doing, Orsino. You must have had some idea what he needed those supplies for, and if you didn't, you should have."

"Orsino …" Bethany breathed his name in shock and disappointment. "I trusted you!"

"All this is very touching," Meredith said icily. "I suppose this means you will be aiding me in carrying out the Right of Annulment after all, Champion?"

Hawke looked at Fenris, whose green eyes were steady on hers, and then at Bethany. Her sister's eyes were huge in her pale face. She turned back to Meredith. "No. This is your fight—I want no part of it, on either side." She looked down at Varric, who was nodding. "I, too, think I'm sick of mages and Templars."

"Get ready, Orsino," Meredith said. "You may not believe this, but I am sorry."

A change came over the First Enchanter. "You aren't," he said. "But you will be." He drew a small knife from his robes.

"I knew it!" Meredith said in a soft, satisfied voice.

Bethany drew in a shocked breath, but said nothing.

"It might interest you to know," Orsino said to Meredith, after a brief, expressionless glance at Bethany, "that up until this moment I have never used blood magic." Cullen's sword scraped in its scabbard and Orsino held up a bleeding palm. With a short word, a wave of power swept from him and knocked Cullen off his feet, as well as Aveline and Donnic, who happened to be standing near the Knight-Captain. "But while searching for research to aid Quentin, I came upon some interesting books, and I learned a few things."

"Stop this at once, First Enchanter," Meredith said. The sword on her back pulsed steadily, the rhythm almost hypnotic, and her eyes were beginning to glow with the same red light.

Blood was pouring from the wound in Orsino's palm, and slowly the contours of his body were changing. "I am sorry, Bethany, truly. I loved you," he said, his voice thickened with power. "Help me!"

Bethany's cheeks were wet with tears. "No. No! Orsino, stop this!" She reached for him, but the swirl of blood around him was too fast, and she was thrown backward, crashing into Evelyn.

Where moments ago an elf had stood, a great hulking creature had appeared, covered in drips of flesh. An abomination like so many they had seen, but much, much larger. The hands formed into long, sharp claws, and the teeth elongated, dripping with a noxious substance.

Facing him was the Knight-Commander, who had drawn the great lyrium sword. It crackled with power as she swung it slowly before her. "I knew it would come to this," she said in satisfaction. Her voice, too, was no longer her own, and she seemed to gain stature as she walked toward the abomination.

"Hawke?" Aveline asked, and Evelyn shook her head.

"This is their fight. Not ours." She looked around at the rest of them, expecting an argument, but met agreement on every face. Hightown and Lowtown and the Docks and the Gallows; nobles and thieves and guards and elves and merchants—Kirkwall as assembled here would watch as the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter resolved their differences once and for all. Bethany, exhausted from the onslaught of emotions she'd been through, buried her face in her hands. Cullen was down on one knee, his hands clasped before him, murmuring the Chant. His eyes were haunted, as if he was seeing things none of the rest of them could.

Meredith charged the abomination that had been Orsino, the glowing sword sweeping the air in front of her. The creature moved back ponderously, the tip of the sword scoring its rubbery flesh and sending black blood oozing down its front. A bolt of energy shot from the abomination's hand, knocking Meredith off-balance. It swept a claw at her, but she whirled and struck, slicing off a finger. The abomination howled, and the blood swirled in front of it, forming a whip that caught Meredith around the waist and flung her against a building.

She got up, her teeth bared, and ran at him, leaping high in the air with the sword above her head. The leap was far higher than any human should have been able to manage, especially one weighed down by a full set of Templar armor. The abomination tried to dodge, but it was too large to move quickly, and the sword sliced easily through its shoulder. It shrieked in agony and sent a fireball at Meredith. The Knight-Commander disappeared in the flames momentarily, but emerged with her face and armor blackened and her sword and armor glowing furiously. She ran at the abomination, the sword held out in front of her, but was thrown backward by a blast of power.

How long the contest went on, Meredith's idol-enhanced strength against the ex-Orsino's power, the others weren't sure. For every injury Meredith managed to inflict, the abomination countered with another magical spell. Both combatants were filthy and bleeding and slowing down.

Fenris glanced at Hawke. "Should we step in?"

She supposed they ought to, but somehow she couldn't seem to find the energy. "Let's give it a few more minutes."

At her side, she saw movement. Aveline and Donnic had their swords out and were moving slowly toward the abomination, while Varric had unslung Bianca. It was a surprising relief to Hawke to have the others stepping up to make the decisions; after the years of death and destruction and loss, she simply didn't have it in her to fight for this city any longer.

The abomination was staggering, that foul-smelling black blood spraying across the cobblestones. It kicked out at Meredith with a powerful foot, sending the Knight-Commander skidding across the ground. Aveline and Donnic took advantage of the abomination's distraction to charge it, bashing it with their shields before it could see them coming and prepare. It reeled under the blows, trying to keep its balance. And then Isabela was there, her daggers neatly slicing through the tendons of its legs, and she rolled out of the way as the abomination swayed and fell, its great weight carrying it over the edge of the wall and into the water. Aveline leaned her head out, watching as it sank deep into the murky waters of Kirkwall Harbor.

Varric had moved to the edge of the field, Bianca raised and poised to sing. "Meredith!"

The Knight-Commander turned, her mouth opening … and then the silver streak of Bianca's delicate tongue buried itself in the Knight-Commander's throat.

Meredith fell without another sound, the glowing sword skittering out of her hands. Varric looked at Bethany. "Sunshine, can I trouble you for a fireball?"

Bethany closed her eyes, digging deep into the wells of her power, and directed a concentrated jet of flame at the broken pieces of the sword, until all that remained of the idol was a spreading puddle on the ground that quickly soaked into the cobblestones.

Cullen stood up, putting an approving hand on Bethany's shoulder. "I'll have those stones ripped up tomorrow," he said. "We'll scatter the dirt and stones in the ocean and have done with that idol once and for all."

Varric stroked Bianca's stock. "Bianca, you minx, that was beautiful," he crooned.

"Someday I want that story," Isabela said.

For once, the dwarf didn't rise to the bait. He smiled, his eyes still on his crossbow.

"Come on," Aveline said. "We have to get back to Kirkwall and see what assistance we can render. There are people hurt over there. Bethany, go get some mages, healers. They'll be needed."

Bethany glanced questioningly at Cullen, who nodded. "Get Ser Hugh," he said. "Tell him what's happened, that I said to send mages over. Kirkwall needs us."

Hawke felt strangely foolish and useless, standing there watching everyone else mobilizing so purposefully. "Aveline, what do you want me to do?"

Aveline answered immediately, "Get in the boat, we're going back to Kirkwall." Then she stopped, her gaze resting thoughtfully on Hawke, and both women could feel a subtle change in the air between them. They smiled slightly at one another, and Hawke quietly turned to do her friend's bidding.  
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Three days later, the nobles of Kirkwall, and many of the commoners, assembled in the large space in front of the Chantry. They had been days filled with labor, clearing out rubble, locating the few survivors, preparing the bodies. Hawke and Fenris had prepared what little of Sebastian they could find, and he had gone to the Maker this morning with all the others.

Hawke had spent all the time she could spare arguing with the Seneschal over what was about to occur, and she had eventually won, the logic of her position unassailable. She looked around her at the assembled citizens, noticing Cullen, present in his capacity as acting Knight-Commander. He had confided to her that he didn't expect to be left in Kirkwall long—between Ferelden and Kirkwall, he had been involved in entirely too many questionable events. When she'd asked what he expected to happen to him, his look had made it plain the answer wasn't a pretty one. For his sake, Hawke hoped the Divine would have too much on her hands to worry about Kirkwall. There were already rumors of unrest spreading, the events in Kirkwall known and mages of other cities and countries beginning to murmur in unrest. To Hawke's surprise, it was her name being whispered about, as though she'd had something to do with what had happened, when instead it had been Anders to start it off, and Bethany and Varric and Aveline who had saved them all. It was too late to prevent the whispers, however, and she had resigned herself to being an unwilling rallying cry, since there was little she could have done to stop it.

Bethany stood next to Cullen, looking nervous but proud. He had promoted her to First Enchanter, and to Evelyn's surprise, her sister had accepted, saying that she thought the Circles could work if mages and Templars could learn to work together instead of in opposition to each other. Bethany had taken the Circle in hand—a difficult task, given Anders's actions, but the mages had worked as hard as anyone, harder, even, to save lives and put Kirkwall back together, and people were beginning to look at them with respect rather than fear. A short first step, but an important one, Hawke hoped. She was filled with pride in her sister.

"Ever see so many stuffed shirts?" Varric whispered. "As if they'd done something amazing, rather than just sit here while the city blew up under their fat asses."

Hawke grinned. The nobles did look rather self-satisfied, standing out there. Many had stopped her in the last few days and expressed support of her as their new viscount. Wasted breath, she thought with pleasure.

Seneschal Bran made his way to the hurriedly erected dais. "My friends, we are here to make some changes in Kirkwall, to end the unrest of the last several years and to bring us new leadership that will usher in a new era for the city of Kirkwall. Our new Viscountess is someone who has shown unswerving devotion to this city, someone who has fought for it in both streets and parlors, who has never been afraid to get her hands dirty in the service of this, her adopted city. Because of her, our homes are safe at night, our streets are as clear of pickpockets as any city in the land, our deliveries run on schedule." As it became clear to the nobles that the last items on the Seneschal's list didn't apply to Hawke, they began looking at each other and muttering. "I am proud to call this woman friend and colleague, and I put my utmost faith in her ability to carry out the office of Viscountess as ably and thoroughly as she has the office of Guard Captain. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Kirkwall's new Viscountess, Aveline Hendyr."

Aveline looked far less uncomfortable than Hawke would have imagined. She wore a modified version of the guard uniform, emphasizing her solidarity with them and presenting a familiar figure for the people of Kirkwall to rally around. And, after a moment's surprised silence, rally they did. Hawke was gratified on her friend's behalf to see that all Aveline's hard work, all the years when she was the only true authority in Kirkwall, had not been in vain. Cheer after cheer went up, and Aveline smiled on her people, Donnic firmly at her side and gazing down at her with pride and adoration.

"You know this is just going to go to her head," Varric commented.

"Good. She can use the confidence boost," Hawke said.

"Nothing's sexier than a cocky woman," Isabela added.

There wasn't much arguing with that, so none of them bothered. Aveline was giving a speech—something about order and discipline and working together, all very Aveline, and Hawke nodded along to show her support.

"Coming to the party, Hawke?" Varric asked, as Aveline's speech ended and the people began to disperse.

"Later," she said. "I think I need a few moments."

"Suit yourself. I'll save you a plate."

She and Fenris remained seated on a bench near the Chantry ruins until the courtyard was empty. "You appear somewhat saddened," he observed.

"Not really. I just don't know quite where to go from here. Kirkwall doesn't need me, my sister doesn't need me …"

"I need you." His arm stole around her waist, pulling her against him.

"And I you. Is that enough?"

"For now." He drew her head against his shoulder, and she took comfort from the warmth of his body. "For now."


	46. This Is Home

"91. 92. 93 …" Fenris paused in the count, his ears picking up a familiar whinny. His heartrate increased with relief and anticipation—Evelyn was home.

"Papa! You stopped counting!" His daughter's voice broke into his thoughts.

"I am sorry." Obediently, he resumed. "94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99 … 100. Prepared or not, here I come!"

There was an answering rustle in the treetops; she was on the move. Fenris closed his eyes, listening to her progress among the branches. Daughter of two warriors though she might be, his daughter inclined more toward Isabela's style of stealth. Or she would when she learned not to make so much noise, Fenris thought with amusement.

He and Hawke had been the proud owners of this Antivan lemon grove for the past six years, and the proud parents of Bianca Vael Hawke for a little more than five of those.

After the deaths of Meredith and Orsino, and the ascension of Aveline to the Viscount's seat, Fenris and Hawke had remained in Kirkwall, but it wasn't the same. Hawke had lost her taste for getting involved in the city's affairs, and Aveline had made it clear that despite her respect for Hawke, mercenaries who worked outside the law could no longer be tolerated. The empty space where the Chantry had stood was a constant reminder of what they had lost that day, and what Hawke had lost throughout her time in Kirkwall.

True to Cullen's prediction, he hadn't remained Knight-Commander of Kirkwall's Circle for long. They never found out where he'd been sent, but Varric's sources suggested it might have been Aeonar, the mages' prison. Bethany had been under constant suspicion and scrutiny, despite her valiant attempts to keep the Circle together while mages were revolting against their Chantry oppressors across the rest of Thedas, and after a little more than a year she had found it necessary to leave Kirkwall, escaping in the dead of night on Isabela's ship, the Temptress. After some serious consideration, and spurred on by the increasing interest the Chantry was showing in Hawke's role in the events that had shaped Kirkwall over the decade she'd spent there, Fenris and Evelyn had accompanied Bethany in her flight. They'd spent a couple of years on the run, enjoying the freedom and excitement of pirate life.

And then the miracle occurred—Hawke had discovered she was pregnant. The idea of a child had always teased at the backs of their minds, but after years in which Hawke had never shown the slightest indication of fertility, they had assumed that for whatever reason, it would never happen. The pregnancy had changed everything; with a child on the way, they could no longer afford to live in the kind of danger Isabela constantly courted, and they both felt a strong desire to settle down somewhere peaceful and quiet. A great deal of subterfuge had been necessary, since the Chantry was increasingly eager to discover Hawke's whereabouts and question her, and Tevinter magisters still came around occasionally looking for the famed lyrium warrior as an addition to their slave collections, but eventually they had settled here in the warm anonymity of the Antivan countryside. The local village pretended to think they were perfectly normal, given Hawke's willingness to help out on any and all occasions, and Hawke and Varric had arranged a complicated set of ruses to ensure safe communication—overly complicated, in Fenris's opinion, but that was Varric for you.

Hawke was returning now from a visit to the coast, purchasing supplies and checking on news from Varric. She was the logical choice for these journeys, as her appearance was far more easily modified and less noticeable to start with than Fenris's. He had to admit, he enjoyed being left at home with Bianca and only occasionally missed the greater excitement of the outside world. Even after all these years of patient tutelage, Hawke was an impatient Wicked Grace player at best … although when she resorted to her particular brand of cheating, it became an entirely new game, Fenris thought, warmth shooting through him. Hawke's absence had been slightly longer than usual this time, and he looked forward to being alone with her tonight.

A faint giggle cut through the air high above him, reminding him of the game in progress. He shook his thoughts off with some difficulty and applied his attention instead to listening for his daughter's movements.  
Fenris moved stealthily across the grove to a twisted tree that rarely fruited. He parted two branches, looking up at Bianca's feet.

"Found you."

"Papa …" she complained. The tips of two long black braids appeared, and then the rest of the braids and finally her face, upside down as she hung from an upper branch by her knees. "No fair cheating with your elf ears."

"It is not cheating to use one's abilities," he reminded her. "You need to learn to be less noisy." Green eyes stared into green eyes, Fenris trying to hold the sternness, but it couldn't last. He'd been wrapped around Bianca's tiny little fingers since the first time he felt her movement inside Evelyn's body. During her mother's absences he did his best to be a strict parent and hold her to the rules, but they all knew how easily he folded in the face of his daughter's opposition. He smiled at her now. "You will learn."

Her eyes widened with excitement as she looked past his shoulder. "Mama!" She flipped casually off the branch, landing on her feet running.

Fenris turned around, his heart filling at the sight of his wife. He watched eagerly as Bianca raced through the trees toward her mother, leaping as soon as she was in reach. Hawke had put an oddly shaped box down when she saw the little girl coming, and she held her arms out, catching Bianca.

"Look at you! What has your father been feeding you?"

"Cookies!" Bianca giggled, burying her face in her mother's neck.

"I don't doubt it." Hawke caught Fenris's gaze over the top of their daughter's head. "And I bet neither of you saved any for me."

Fenris looked away sheepishly, and Bianca hugged her mother tighter. "We would have if we'd known you were coming today. We missed you!"

"And I missed you."

"No trouble?" Fenris asked.

Hawke shook her head and started to say something, but was interrupted by Bianca's insistent voice. "Presents! What did Uncle Varric send me?"

"How do you know he sent you anything?"

Bianca frowned. "He's Uncle Varric. He never forgets to send me a present."

"All right, then." Hawke put the little girl down and handed her the box, watching as Bianca deftly found the catch and lifted the lid.

"Ooh!" Bianca lifted from the box a perfect miniature replica of her namesake, Varric's crossbow, and a smaller box of quarrels. "Oh, looky, Mama!" As if she'd been doing it all her life, she loaded a quarrel, cocked the weapon, and fired it. A lemon fell from a tree, neatly skewered. "Wow!" She ran off to inspect her prize, and then moved deeper into the grove, accompanied by the newest Bianca's ratchets and clicks.

"It works?" Fenris asked, raising his eyebrows. "What have we ever done to Varric?"

Hawke grinned. "Left Kirkwall?"

"I believe that answers the question of whether he intends to come visit. He must know his reception would be less than cordial if he sent this item along."

Brandishing a piece of parchment, Hawke said, "I can't tell until I read the letter, and you know what that means." Her grin widened.

"Oh, no," Fenris said. "Before I allow you to use me in such a fashion, I intend to welcome you properly."

"I thought you'd never ask."

She came into his arms then, her sweet lips opening beneath his. All the concerns that lurked in the back of his mind whenever she was away, the ones he refused to acknowledge even to himself, faded in the onslaught of overwhelming sensations. Fenris turned her around, pressing her back against the nearest tree, his fingers gripping her hips and holding her still as he pressed himself urgently against her. Just as he was beginning to convince himself that Bianca's new toy would keep her away long enough, an errant quarrel sped through the air and bounced off the tree trunk above their heads.

Fenris groaned, leaning his head against Hawke's shoulder.

"Bianca Vael! If you can't play more responsibly, maybe the crossbow should be put away," Evelyn snapped.

"Sorry, Mama!" sang the little voice.

Evelyn pressed her cheek against Fenris's hair. "Later. After a very early bedtime," she promised.

"Was your journey uneventful?" he asked, pulling away from her distractingly soft, warm body.

"No trouble. A bit more curiosity than usual when picking up Varric's packet, so I took a couple of extra detours on the way back."

"I wondered. You were gone longer than I had expected. I wish I could make the journey in your stead occasionally." He looked down at the markings, cursing them anew. "This burden should not fall entirely on your shoulders."

"Why not? I'm the one the Chantry's Seekers are looking for. If it weren't for me, you and Bianca could live a normal life—you could even go back to Kirkwall and see your friends again." Her lips trembled, and she pressed them firmly together, looking away.

"I am not certain I would recognize a normal life, and if I did, whether I would want it. And you forget," Fenris said, cupping her cheek and turning her face toward him again, "that the Tevinters are still searching for me, as well. I am in hiding from them as much as you are in hiding from the Chantry." His thumb stroked across her skin. "And I am certainly not the only one who would like to go back to Kirkwall and cannot do so. But let us not forget how many of our friends are no longer there—in fact, only Varric and Aveline and Donnic still remain. Everyone else has scattered. Even Tomwise has taken his potion-making skills elsewhere—Llomerryn, I believe Varric said in his last letter."

Evelyn leaned into his touch, her eyes closing for a moment. She opened them, searching his face. "I still feel badly … you had your own life for the first time, and I took you away from that."

"You are my life. You and Bianca. I need nothing more."

She clearly saw in his face that he meant it, because she nodded, the lines of tension smoothing away. "Same here." Evelyn removed his hand from her cheek, kissing it, and then drew a rolled parchment from her pocket. "Shall we see what Varric has to say?"

Fenris groaned, but he obediently rolled up his sleeve, holding his arm out and activating the lyrium. "Surely you and Varric could devise a method of communication that does not require my abilities."

Unrolling the parchment and holding it over his arm, Evelyn grinned at him. "Where would be the fun in that?"

Before Sandal and Bodahn had left Hawke's service, heading for Orlais and a new life there, Sandal had devised an ink that could be seen only under the light of activated lyrium and given it to Hawke as a present, smiling his secret smile. Apparently the young dwarf had foreseen that Hawke might need to send and receive private messages long before Hawke had determined that necessity for herself. Varric had acquired a chunk of shielded lyrium that he used as a paperweight on his end, and Hawke found using Fenris's markings to read Varric's messages a never-ending source of amusement.

She scanned the page quickly, greedy for news of her loved ones. Fenris knew she would read the letter over several more times before writing her response. Despite her concern over his happiness, Hawke was the one who truly yearned for all the friends they had cut themselves off from. If he had known how to resolve that for her, he would have done so a long time ago.

"What is the word?" he asked, noticing that she had moved the page up and was reading again, more slowly.

"Varric saw Bethany! The Temptress was in Kirkwall for repairs. He says life at sea clearly agrees with her, and she and Isabela are very happy together. To think," Evelyn said, glancing up at Fenris with a wry smile, "that Isabela would be the sanest and most stable relationship choice Bethany ever made. Apparently Charade is in Cumberland—she's taken a position as secretary to an investigator called Steele." Evelyn frowned. 

"Charade as a secretary? That sounds off, somehow. Hey, you remember those brothers she and Isabela were with for a while in Antiva, what were their names?"

"Simonez," Fenris said. "Ricardo and Alejandro Jose."

"Those were the ones. Weren't they some kind of detectives?" She nodded, answering her own question, and her eyes twinkled. "How much you want to bet Charade decided to be a detective, too, and this man Steele is just a front?" Shaking her head in amusement, she bent back over the letter. "Uncle Gamlen was ill over the winter, but seems recovered now, told Varric to say hello."

"Mama!" Bianca's voice came from the trees, and the little girl's face appeared. "I ran out of bolts."

"Then go find the ones you already used," Hawke said.

"Oh! Of course!" The leaves rustled as she went off to find the quarrels.

Hawke smiled as she watched Bianca's progress. "She's grown so big! Seems like just yesterday she was too short to reach the branches and had to be lifted into the trees."

"One of us will have to teach her to use that device," Fenris said, and they exchanged looks. While both were conversant in bows, neither was particularly proficient. "I do not suppose you could convince Varric to leave the Hanged Man long enough to visit."

"You 'do not suppose' correctly." Hawke double-checked Bianca's whereabouts, then said softly, "Varric says he was captured and interrogated by the Seekers. Says not to worry, that he told them 'the truth', Varric style—" She broke off as Fenris groaned. "No doubt he embellished a bit."

"'Embellished a bit'?" Fenris echoed. "I can only imagine what his tale would be of Meredith and Orsino's final moments. He'd have her awakening the very statues in the courtyard, no doubt."

"Wouldn't surprise me," Hawke said. "He did mention that he heard from Merrill and she's quite happy—settled with some Fereldan elf named Soris." She sighed. "So much for hoping that Varric would have a fairytale happy ending."

"Varric is more likely to write the fairytale than to live it," Fenris said. "Something in him makes him an observer rather than an actor—you should feel pride that you coaxed him to be part of the story for as long as you did."

"I suppose you're right." The corners of Hawke's mouth turned down, and Fenris could feel how much she missed her friend.

"What other news does Varric have to impart? How do Aveline and Donnic fare?"

"Very well, apparently, although Varric says their sons have taken Kirkwall by storm and suggests that if Aveline had half the discipline over her children that she has over the rest of the city, he wouldn't fear so much for the future of Thedas." She winked at Fenris. "Imagine that, a powerful warrior like Aveline putty in the hands of her children."

Fenris caught the jibe easily. "No doubt she's merely an exceptionally loving parent," he said. "Perhaps a more stern parent would be looking after his child right now rather than providing a light source so his wife could read a letter." He tugged at his arm.

"Not a step, there, you." Hawke laughed, closing both hands around his arm and pulling him closer. "Have I thanked you yet for staying home and taking such good care of Bianca?"

"I do not recall you doing so, no."

She pressed against him, kissing along the edge of his jaw. "Thank you."

Fenris's arms closed around her, but with her usual impeccable timing Bianca was squeezing between them, a handful of quarrels in one hand and the crossbow clenched in the other. Smiling at each other, they shifted to make room, lifting her up so she was snuggled between them. "I'm sleepy," Bianca announced, blinking her big green eyes. "Tell me a story?"

"There's nothing I'd like better," Hawke said. She found the blanket Fenris and Bianca had been using earlier in the morning and settled down on it. Bianca curled up against her mother, the miniature crossbow at her feet. "Let's see. What would you like to hear?"

"Something about Uncle Varric, and you, and Papa," Bianca said.

"Ah." Hawke leaned her head back against the trunk of the tree. Fenris followed them, stretching out across the grass with his head in Hawke's lap. He gazed up into the blue sky, framed by fluttering green leaves, and sighed in contentment as Hawke began the story. "Once upon a time, four people went into the Deep Roads. A warrior, an elf, a mage, and a dwarf—and let's not forget the fifth member of the party, an exceptional weapon named Bianca …"


End file.
